


We Keep Our Heads Down

by Lightsabre3



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Plot, Polyamory, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-01-21 10:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightsabre3/pseuds/Lightsabre3
Summary: Paarsa wants only for one thing: freedom. For them, for Haven City. They only wish it didn't come with such a hefty toll.
Relationships: Jak/Original Character(s) (Jak and Daxter), Keira Hagai/Jak, Keira Hagai/Original Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10





	1. Rare Pleasures

I have never known true hardship. I have never had to struggle. I have never gone to bed hungry or scared for my life. I have access to clean drinking and bathing water whenever I so desire -hot or cold. I know the sun and clean air.

I live a privileged life in Haven City, and I hate it.

Because on the outside, and from very far away, Haven City looks perfect. Pretty. Clean. Prosperous. Only once one dives in deep do they see they truth. They see the massive gaps in wealth and living conditions -from high-rises of polished glass and steel to decrepit, shanty houses. The increased number of Krimzon Guards patrolling the Slums, and how they treat the people tossed there to wither and die.

The people in Haven City are prisoners, every single one of them. Even I am.

Those of the upper-class can fool themselves into thinking otherwise. They can throw grand soirees and move about the city freely, but they all bow to the Baron. They are made to stay within his grasp, within the high, metal walls encircling the city.

Those in the Slums, there is no pretending they are anything but prisoners. They are crowded together in crumbling houses. The water is dirty and hazardous. It is not safe to breathe. The smog is so thick it chokes out the warmth and light of the sun. Casting everyone and everything in grey and dreariness. The conditions are draining on both body and soul, and some people sacrifice both rather than live another year in such conditions. I cannot blame them.

For most, life under the Baron is brutal and short. Deprived of freedom. Often joyless, but there are small, rare moments of pleasure. Some find it in their families. Their friends. A good meal after times of scarcity.

For the Underground, it is when a mission goes off without a hitch. No one dies. The people benefit, and the Baron suffers.

For the Baron and his Krimzon Guard, their joy comes at a price for the rest of us. The Baron likes to experiment, and he is not above using the more disenfranchised citizens as test subjects. The Guards go on their wild tears, killing innocents out of boredom and a god-like entitlement. They smile behind their helms as their stun-guns crisp flesh and illicit screams.

I think they find joy in our suffering. They must to cause it as they do.

My rare moments of pleasure are the few and far between excursions I take outside of the city walls.

They are not sanctioned; in fact, they are very illegal, and if I were ever caught, I would be killed immediately. No one goes outside the walls, and that is due in part to the myth that there is no way outside of the walls. That the walls are impenetrable, as strong and unyielding as the Baron. The only way to leave is by banishment or death -and those who are banished might as well have been killed. They are flown over the walls, taken out into the Wastelands -the unbearable heat and stinging sands- and left to die.

There is another way.

In the Slums, there is a door. It is old and forgotten, and the only people who make use of it are the repair men and their few escorting guards when they have repairs to do at the Pumping Station just outside the city’s walls.

Well, they are the only people who make use of it in an official capacity. Smuggler’s use it. As does the Underground. Metalhead hunters, too. Sometimes the unfortunate citizen finds it, and they think they have found an escape. A way to freedom.

The Metalheads make quick work of them.

But I am too quick for the Metalheads. Too quick for the Krimzon Guard.

Too fast and unremarkable for anyone to take notice of.

Plain as a dormouse; quick as a viper.

And I love to sun myself as the latter, cold-blooded creature does -love to slink out of my enclosure to enjoy the sun as one should.

The Pumping Station is just far enough away from Haven City to be spared from some of the smog affecting the lowest areas. Not all of it, though. It can still be grey and dreary, but there are moments of clarity. Of warmth and sunshine, and they make it worth the risk of coming here.

I always make this trip when I visit the Slums, and I visit once a week, finding more joy amongst the down-trodden than I do with the bourgeoise. The people of the Slums love and look out for one another whereas those of the upper-class neighborhoods are likely to plunge a knife into your back. They have to stick together to survive, and I provide them with what I can -and I can manage a good bit. Father grants me an exorbitant allowance. Most of it -if not all- finds its way to the people of the Slums.

And they need everything they can get. The Krimzon Guards have been ever-more brutal, enforcing a slew of new laws the Baron implemented. There was already a curfew, but now it begins even earlier in the day -as the sun starts to set. Businesses in the poorer districts suffer with their hours of operation cut, as do those unfortunate enough to get caught out and about after dark.

The Slums grow poorer. Hungrier. Desperate.

Even though I am helping them all I can, it is just not enough. It makes me sick to my stomach.

But… but I feel soothed as I sit under the meager rays of sunshine drifting through the cloudbank overhead. For a moment, my mind isn’t on the depressing city whose walls tower in the distance. The Baron is not watching. The Baron is not speaking, his messages played for all on loop at kiosks scattered throughout the city streets.

I exist on this high cliff with the sun above and the green grass beneath me. The fronds of a palm tree brush together in the light wind -creating a soft whisper of a sound- and the muted, mechanical whirs and murmurs of the Pumping Station are further below -gentle reminders of civilization. They keep me from drifting too much, losing myself truly.

Even if this is a rare moment of solace, I must remain on my guard. Aware.

Because the chitters and growls of Metalheads mingle in with orchestra of nature and machine. They are scattered below, amongst the machinery and sand. Prowling in the shallow depths of the dark ocean. 

It is unlikely one would wander to my perch -it has never happened before. But that does not mean it will not. I can never be too comfortable. Too confident. One slip up is all it takes.

A sad sigh leaves me at the thought, then another when the faded sunlight disappears altogether, buried deeply within the grey clouds having rolled in.

I had felt it earlier -as if it was going to rain. I could smell it. Feel it in the air. I had hoped for a few more moments of sunlight, but the rain has its purpose. Settle some of the smog. Water the crops. Clear the streets of debris.

I sit up slowly, unwillingly, and immediately my head turns to the city walls. They leer over me. A silent, threatening presence. Oppressive. I live to see the day they come tumbling down -or, at least, they open. They allow us to come and go. They protect us instead of trap us.

I believe that day draws closer and closer.

Stretching as I rise, my attention turns outwards, away from the looming presence behind me. The sun is setting, slowly inching its way beneath the dark ocean and distant, dilapidated structures from long ago. The waters seem endless, and I know in the back of my head, there must exist someplace better across it.

Sometimes, I think about stealing a zoomer and somehow getting it out of the city. I would fly out over the ocean, far and fast away. I would find somewhere where the sun always shines, tyrannical dictators swing by their throats, and biomechanical monsters did not threaten existence.

I can daydream. I can hope and wish. But that gets me nowhere. Makes me nothing other than longing for something… I lust after something that might not exist, that I cannot even name -more than just freedom.

Thunder booms above; lightning crackles through the sky. I know my respite has ended.

I roll my shoulders and crack my knuckles, and with very little hesitation, I take a running leap off the cliff.

The air whips up around me, filling my ears. Kissing my skin. Lifting loose spirals of soft blue. I cherish the sensations but for a moment, and then my outstretched hands find the bar I always catch myself on. I come to an abrupt, dangling halt. Below is sand and metal. A few large, orange lizards meander about.

They never look up so high, and so I do not worry as I begin to swing my legs, building up the momentum I need to launch myself through the air -to the rooftop of the nearby pump house. It is a jump I have made dozens of times, and it is a jump I make again today. I sail through the air, landing in a roll I smoothly rise from in a low, quiet sprint.

My bare feet barely make a sound as I descend from rooftop to rooftop, and when I finally reach the sand below, I savour the sensation of its fading warmth between my toes before I duck and roll for cover behind a collection of frond plants.

A Metalhead tromps by on all fours, unaware of my presence. I watch it from the shadows, hearing my heart beating in my own ears. It races with adrenaline. The thrill of the run and jumps and danger.

But not with fear.

Perhaps it should. Metalheads are monsters in every meaning of the word. They come in various forms and sizes, many of them lizard-like, mashed-up with machinery. Flesh and metal. The one before me is deep red in colour, plated with a metal I don’t think our world produces. Four golden eyes. All teeth and claws. And imbedded in its skull is an ovular orb with a golden, glimmering luster. It’s beautiful -collector’s pay ludicrous sums of money for the strange orbs.

I have killed exactly one Metalhead, and it had been purely on accident. It spotted me as I was running amongst the pumping station platforms, and it did not make a jump as it came after me. It fell, cracking itself open upon a sharp rock jutting out of the ocean. I made my way down to it, finding blood like oil. Scratches on the metal plating, like it had been burnished. But its flesh had a fading warmth to it.

As had the golden orb I worked out of its cranium with the knife I keep stashed on my person for emergencies. It held its warmth as I smuggled it back into the city, to my home. Every now and again, I take it from beneath my bed to gaze into its swirling depths. It is still warm -it has been months, a year possibly, and it is still warm.

Alive in some way.

The creature makes a “whuffing” noise as it paws at the sand, then with a shake of its massive head, it pads away.

With the area clear, I take off towards the rusting, scratched up door leading into Haven City.

There are no cameras here -no working ones, anyway. Their dull remains still perch in high corners, but they are damaged beyond use, and so no one sees it as the aging doors creakily part for me, then seal behind.

I step out onto the sodden portion of the Slums where ramshackle huts are built upon precariously stilted docks. The wood here is worn and creaking. The water dark and dirtied. Brackish. Kids here are taught at a young age not to play in the water -not to go anywhere near it if they can help it. They’re likely to catch their death.

I pull my hood over my head, carefully concealing my face, and then I pull my scarf over my mouth and nose to shield what the hood does not.

Many dress like this in Haven City -wear scarves over the lower portions of their faces so they don’t breathe in the smog and smoke- so I blend right in as I slip from the lower piers and onto the higher walkways where those in similar fashions make their way home. We all keep our heads down. Eyes on our feet, carefully averting our gazes from the Krimzon Guardsmen scattered about.

They walk on foot with stun-guns in hand, faces covered and bodies heavily armored. Some have actual guns, and I live in terror of them. You can survive a blow from a stun-gun, come out relatively unscathed, but a blast from one of their morph-guns maims in a gruesome way. I often times wonder if it is worse to survive being shot than dying, because those that do -and there are very few- live disfigured and in pain.

Other Guardsmen fly above on zoomers, and regular citizens who can afford the air-crafts give them a wide berth.

I listen to their chatter as I move along. The talk of suspicious activity in sector 9. False alarms. Situations under control. It grows harder to hear as the rain finally sets in, and it comes down in a moderate drizzle, quickly soaking my cloak.

The drizzle turns to a maelstrom as splintered piers turn to cracked pavement beneath my feet. The drops of rain fall like bullets. I scurry under the cover of a nearby awning, and make room when an elderly man and young boy duck under beside me. I recognize them immediately, though it has been weeks since I last saw them.

Kor and Mar. They dress better than most in this part of town. The man’s sky-blue robes are spotless and wrinkle-free, his white beard well-kept and ends trimmed. The staff he carries is finely made, wood polished and glimmering. The boy’s overalls look brand new with no patches or bared threads, and beneath his fine, brown leather cap, tufts of deep-green hair peek through. Around his neck, he wears an amulet, the pattern carved into the weathered wood familiar. He is supposed to keep it tucked away…

They look out of place in the Slums, but I imagine I would too if I removed my cloak and scarf.

We three stand in silence for a long moment, pretending we don’t know each other and watching the grey sheet of rain pound against the cracked pavement of the Slums. As it rushes down the gutters like rapids.

I tap my bared feet in the forming puddles, swishing one back and forth to entertain myself. The young boy watches, eventually coming to stand close by me and do similar. Stamp his foot; swish the water around. He smiles up at me as he mimics my actions.

I pull my scarf down over my mouth to return it, and take a knee, not minding my trousers get thoroughly soaked. He watches me curiously as I scoop up a handful of water, and with a quick glance over my shoulder -to see Kor appears to have fallen asleep standing upright- I show him a trick I know.

Within my cupped hands, the water loses its clouded quality, growing clearer and clearer until specks of white light drift up from pristine water. The boy’s blue eyes grow absolutely wide as he watches, his smile becoming a look of wonder. Then I part my fingers ever so slightly, allowing the water to stream through the gaps. The water comes through in trickles of iridescent rainbow colour, reflecting the light of the specks.

He pulls in a soft, shocked breath, and looks up at me as if I am the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. As the water drains out completely, I place a finger to my lips. He nods. I scoop up another handful, allowing it to drain into his cupped hands. He smiles so brightly as the glowing water fills his hands then dribbles away.

We do this a few more times until I feel the old man stirring at my side, hear as he looses a mighty yawn. The boy and I both straighten up immediately, and I pull my scarf back over my mouth.

I exchange pleasantries with Kor. We chat lightly about the weather. The new curfew. How expensive food is. In near whispers do we discuss any business relating to the Rebellion -how a recent operation went and what has been going on. The young boy listens by our feet, sometimes smiling at what we say or looking downright confused.

The rain eventually lets up, and those who ran for cover pick their way back onto the streets; the old man, boy, and myself amongst them. We bid each other farewell, the old man telling me I was fine company on a rainy day and quietly adding for me to be careful. I return the sentiment just as softly before wishing him and Mar a lovely day.

Kor hobbles off with Mar on his heels. The child often looks over his shoulder at me, waving goodbye over and over again. I return the motion every single time as I listen to the tip-tap of the man’s walking staff against the wet pavement.

Then I see a young man -his hair green at the roots and blonde towards the ends- verily bowl into the elder, and he goes reeling backwards. I rush forward to keep the Kor from falling in the slick streets, managing to catch him just in time as the boy who ran into him whirls about, puffed up and angry as if he had been the one knocked over.

Something about him immediately strikes me -sends a tremor wracking down my spine. A palpable darkness radiates from him, and the anger -hatred- in his eyes has me wanting to take a step back -put Kor and Mar behind me so that he cannot hurt them. For he looks like he could -would- like he could rip the whole world apart in his rage.

“Can we help you, young man?” The elder croaks out as I get him back on his feet. “W-?”

“You look like a reasonably smart man,” the angry one growls, advancing on us.

I instinctively put myself before the boy and man, a snarl rippling across my shielded lips. “Take a step back.”

My tone is level. Cold as death.

The green-blonde-haired boy -no more than eighteen, I would think- falters for a moment, pulling back only to step forward again and demand of us, “I want information -that’s all. Just answer me a few questions, alright? I need to know where the hell I am.”

Everything about his tone is hostile and impatient, and I am not inclined to do a damn thing for him. Especially not with the way he jabs a finger at me.

Something furry and orange suddenly jumps down from the young man’s back, wedging itself in between us. “Ah, sorry. Sorry, folks.” The creature -an ottsel, I believe, but I have never heard of a talking ottsel before- apologizes. “He’s new to the whole conversation thing.”

The angry boy seems to deflate again, pulling back. Quieting down. I do not back down. I do not move from my protective stance, but Kor steps up beside me, smoothing his robes as he says, “Well, my angry young friend, you are a guest of his majesty, Baron Praxis, the ruler of glorious Haven City.”

His voice is underscored by notes of sarcasm. It says we are not actually guests; we are prisoners. That his majesty is a raging asshole, our warden and captor. Haven City is a shithole, a prison.

And I wonder how this boy got here. How he does not know where he stands. Was he smuggled in from the outside? A prisoner who escaped?

I am about to voice these inquiries when sharp barks from behind greet my ears, and I look over my shoulder to see a contingent of Krimzon Guards rounding a corner, bullying their way through the streets. Immediately, I know this is not a normal patrol. There are too many of them gathered together -they never show up in greater numbers than three if it is just a routine inspection. There are eight or nine of them. They are about to do something horrible, or they are after someone.

And if they are after someone, I would say it is the angry boy.

“We better move on,” I say to them all, motioning for Kor and Mar to follow me. They were heading in the direction the guards come from, and continuing on will bring them nothing but pain.

The boy comes to my feet, as does the ottsel. I do not know if I want it or the angry interloper to come along, but I would never subject anyone to cruelty of the guards and Baron.

We turn to move, only to be ordered to, “Halt, by order of his eminence, the Grand Protector of Haven City, Baron Praxis.”

If I were alone, I would run. I can evade the guards with no trouble -I have done it a hundred times- but Mar and Kor cannot. And I cannot leave them. They are too important. 

I halt. Everyone in the street halts, and it goes so deathly quiet I can hear my own breathing.

“Everyone in this section is hereby under arrest for suspicion of harboring Underground fugitives.”

Fuck.

I might be able to get out of this. When they take me in for questioning, they will see who I am. I will be carted off to my family. Father will give me a stern talking-to and lock me away in my room for a few days. But before that -if I choose my words carefully, play my cards right- I might be able to help the Kor and Mar get out, too. I have to. They would never survive in the holding cells, and if the Guards were to look too closely, they would see who Mar is.

As for the angry boy and his ottsel… If they are not wanted, I might be able to help them. Pay a guard off to let them walk. I should not help him, not after how he acted, but if he is an innocent -made hard and angry by the system- I cannot let him be sentenced to torture or death just because he slighted me. Then I am no better. I am part of the problem.

“Surrender and die.”

Those final words snap me from my thoughts, because they do not intend to take us to the prison. They are just going to gun us all down in the streets. I cannot save any of us from that.

“Doesn’t he mean surrender or die?” the ottsel asks nervously. “Hey! Don’t you mean surrender or die?”

“Not in this city,” says the old man, pulling the boy close to his side. His watery-blue eyes pick around, looking for somewhere to go. Somewhere to hide. He looks to the angry asshole and pleads with him, “Protect us, and I’ll introduce you to someone who can help you.”

The brooding young man does not take much convincing. In fact, he looks eager as he steps towards the guards.

A fight erupts immediately; the halted crowd disperses, running for their lives as arcs of blue-white electricity spark from stun-guns. I sweep Kor and Mar into a side alley, keeping them from being trampled or worse. We keep watch as…

Something had happened to the brooder when I looked away, and I realize now why I felt such darkness from him.

He is darkness. Its embodiment.

He had morphed into something clawed and wicked, but still human. His eyes are black pools. Ebon horns peek through hair having gone ashen grey. Sun-warmed golden skin has gone dusky pale, and every move he makes, arcs of violet-purple electricity race outwards from him. He decimates the guards with claws and teeth and electricity, and does so with zeal.

Horror over the carnage is my initial reaction -not fear. I have never been one to fear the dark, nor the creatures that slink from it.

Then there comes relief, for I know the monster will win. The guards are no match for the whirlwind of destruction the angry asshole has become. The innocents condemned to die will live -if for only a moment more, they will live.

I relax, and the only move I make is to cover the young boy’s eyes. I probably should have done it earlier, but… it is astounding to watch the demon fight. Enrapturing. He slaughters until the streets are painted red and every Krimzon Guard lay shredded in the street.

Then he falls to his knees, apparently exhausted as he slowly morphs back into the young man who so rudely slammed into the one at my side.

We pull ourselves from the alley, and I watch as the ottsel goes to his friend and tells him how cool he was.

Cool, indeed -gruesome and initially terrifying, but cool.

But his violent actions appear to have cost the young man; he shakes, struggling and straining, as he pulls himself back up to his feet. In a pained gasp, he says, “Something’s happening to me -something_ he_ did. I… I can’t control it…”

The pain in his voice, the raw emotion, breaks me from thoughts and awe, and I move towards the boy. I cannot help it. He is in pain. He is struggling, and there is a part of me that can never turn away from those in agony -a light inside that burns to fix. To mend. To help.

I know I can help him. For at least a moment, I can help him.

He flinches away from me, baring his teeth, but I expose my palms to him. Showing him I hold nothing to harm him. I will not move to harm him. His posture relaxes -the snarl fades- but I feel the strain in his hand as I take it into mine.

I close my eyes and think of the Pumping Station -not the machinery and the Metalheads, but of the palm trees and sun-warmed sand. The dark waters gently lapping at the shore. I breathe out slowly, hearing as he looses a shuddering breath. The tension leaves his hand, and the dark aura about him fades as well.

When I open my eyes, my hands lose their subtle, white glow. I meet his searching, sky-blue eyes for a moment, finding not the anger and rage from earlier, but confusion. Fear.

He is out of place in this world.

I drop his hand and step back, saying nothing.

The old man does, however. “Very impressive.”

I know Kor does not speak to me. He’s watching the angry boy closely.

“What you did was brave,” the old man goes on, motioning to the young one at his side. “This boy is important.”

The ottsel, who had been gaping at me, suddenly turns his wide eyes on the boy. They narrow in disbelief. “This kid?” He almost scoffs as he steps up to observe the child closely; the green-haired boy backs away, covering his face bashfully. “He looks kinda… scruffy.”

“Are you one to talk?” I ask of the ottsel, raising a brow beneath my hood. “Your fur looks like it could do with a good brushing.”

It sticks its tongue out at me; the angry boy snorts in amusement.

“Thank you for protecting us, truly.” The old man draws our eyes back to him with his sincere thanks. He draws the boy to his side. “I must get him to safety -we should all find safety. The guards -the Baron- will not be happy about this.”

“It is going to be a long night,” I murmur, envisioning the raids. The needless slaughter that will arise. “A long, bloody night.”

The old man tilts his head with grim acknowledgement, attention turning to the ottsel and brooder. “I spoke of one who could help you earlier -it is an organization, the Underground. They fight the Baron. Its leader, the Shadow, should be able to help you -and they could certainly use a fighter like you.”

I should have known that is who he was referring to earlier…

Kor leans in to whisper instructions in angry asshole’s ear. Then he thanks us all one last time before ushering the boy away.

When he is out of ear shot, I say lowly to the boy and ottsel, “I know where he has pointed you, and I am heading that way. I can escort you close, and you should be able to find your way.”

“That would be helpful,” says the ottsel, staring after the old man in annoyance, “white beard over there gave us the vaguest instructions he possibly could.”

The broody boy tilts his head as if to say thanks. The fear and confusion have left his face, replaced by something stony and unreadable.

“We have to be vague,” I say simply, motioning for them to come along. “We have to be careful. We have to keep our heads down…” I lead them into a back alley, pausing before a wall with jutting stones. “You a good climber?”

The green-blonde-haired boy nods.

“You fast?”

“Plenty.”

I quickly scale the wall. “Then let us see if you can keep up.”

A smirk takes his lips, and I watch with mild surprise as he scales the wall with ease.

* * *

We run along the rooftops, ducking into the cover of shadows and abandoned buildings when patrols come sweeping by. The boy at my side is swift and sure, and he shows no hesitation when it comes to mimicking my jumps and plunges. The ottsel, however, bitches and moans. Claims there is no way we can make jumps before we make the jumps and stick the landings.

And though there is danger in the air, guards after us, I am having fun.

I am having fun within these damned city walls.

I come to a stop on a balcony, breathing deeply through my nose as I catch my breath. The boy comes swinging in behind me, huffing and puffing. He tells me it has been a while since he has had the occasion to run like this. He might be a little out of shape.

“But in better condition than most.”

He smiles as if it pleases him to hear that.

I move towards the balcony’s edge to search for guards, to see if our way is clear. We have reached the point where we go separate ways -him going deeper into the Slums while I head up in the world- but as I peek around the building’s corner, I see something I had not expected.

I mean, I should have expected it -I should have known after the slaughter, with all the patrols we ducked and dodged, that the Krimzon Guards would have put up a checkpoint.

My way out of the Slums is blocked by a high, transparent-red wall. It reaches far above the rooftops, impossible to scale or jump over. There is no way through it unless I were a Krimzon Guard, or if I held one of their security passes -which I do not.

I hiss out an angry, “Fuck,” my hands curling into fists at my sides.

There is a sudden weight on my shoulder. A voice in my ear. “What's wrong? Oh. Huh.” I look to the ottself, finding it peering around the building's edge as I had been. “Red wall got you blue?”

“It is a checkpoint,” I say, eyes flickering to the boy as he comes to look as well. His brows furrow in confusion. “They have further trapped us. There is no way out of the Slums and into the rest of the city now.”

I don’t say I am stuck here. I try not to think that I am. Or how much damned trouble I am in when and if I get back home. My father seldom comes around, but sooner or later, he will notice my absence. I will have hell to pay. He will send out guards. It will be a mess…

But there is nothing I can do. Maybe if the sewers were not so well-guarded and deadly, I could sneak through them; but as they are now, I would die down there. Pumped full of plasma and holes.

I heave a sigh. “I will guide you the rest of the way.”

“Looks like you don’t have any other choice,” notes the blonde.

“I do not.” And without another word, I climb over the balcony’s railing and drop down to the empty street below.


	2. Broken Tower

We round a corner, coming to an utterly remarkable, dead-end alley. Normally, it is empty, devoid of life. The Krimzon Guard think this particular area has gone to the rats and the destitute, and only ever bother with it if they absolutely have to -or if they have to take a piss while on duty.

Tonight, however, dark figures dart about, coming and going from the cracks and crevices. I would not notice them if I were not looking for them -familiar with their movements. I am not surprised the Underground’s hub is so busy. A checkpoint went up. Patrols increased. They have probably received word of the slaughter my broody companion committed.

Two figures stick out to me: a blonde female and brown-haired male. The female is Tess. She and I are the youngest Underground operatives -both of us are eighteen, our birthdays within a week of each other’s- but whereas I am a runner, she is an infiltrator -an intelligence-gatherer. She is competent, kind, and down-right bubbly -not to mention incredibly pretty (her eyes are the clearest shade of blue I’ve ever beheld in my life, and her face just has this sweetness to it, this quality that makes you want to trust her). Once a week, we go out to eat together.

The male is Torn, an imposing man of thirty years who stands at more than six feet tall. His face is near completely covered with tattoos of a blocky, geometric design. They denote his past as a Krimzon Guard Captain -his greatest shame, but he cannot rid himself of the tattoos. Cannot rid himself of the past. I used to find him completely unapproachable. His voice was gruff and his deep-brown eyes intimidating, but we grew closer overtime. He stopped waving knives at me.

They look my way, waves of confusion, concern, and skepticism passing over their faces as they hurry over.

“What’re you still doing here, Paarsa?” Torn asks, his voice rough and sharp, but he corrects his tone immediately. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you shouldn’t be here still -you were supposed to be home before curfew.”

“Did you get caught in the raid?” Tess asks, eyes sweeping over me for injury. “We heard a large group of guards came down Street 580 and planned on putting everyone down. Some sort of fight erupted -we don’t know the specifics yet, but our operatives are on the case.”

I nod. “I was on my way out -in the wrong place at the wrong time… They thought the residents were hiding some of our operatives.”

Tess and Torn both look guilty at hearing such news. Tess averts her gaze, and Torn’s jaw feathers as his hands curl into fists at his sides. I understand why -it always hurts to be reminded our presence endangers those we are trying to protect.

“Did you see what happened?” Torn presses, regaining his composure.

I nod again, beckoning my angry companion forward. “He took out the contingent -all of them, and all by himself.”

The angry asshole stands tall under the harsh, scrutinizing gazes Tess and Torn level on him, not batting an eye. No, he meets their stares with a raised brow.

“So, I brought him here,” I go on. “We could use him, I think.”

“I want to fight the Baron,” the asshole states very simply. “And I hear that’s your whole thing, so I want in.”

Tess and Torn share a look, sharing some silent council before Tess nods and strides off to take care of… something. If I had to guess, she probably goes to find out if any of our operatives returned with news of the events on Street 580.

After that, Torn fails to acknowledge my words and the asshole’s presence. No, his attention comes squarely back to me, and I can feel my companion bristling in offense over it.

“You should have tried to get out before they put up the checkpoints,” he says.

“I know.”

“Your dad’ll go on a tear just as bad as the guards,” his voice is gruff, tinted with worry. “You know what happened the last time you went missing-.”

“I can handle anything he does,” I state firmly, cutting him off. “And I will find a way to get a security pass. I am already plotting it out, so do not worry your pretty little head.” I beckon Asshole forward. “Instead, focus on this -him. I see you are skeptical, but I really think-.”

“This kid?” He scoffs, chucking roughly as he shakes his head. He does not look the least bit impressed by Asshole and his ottsel. “Nah. If you want to join something, why don’t you and your pet go join the circus?”

The ottsel looks absolutely offended; the angry boy glares daggers at Torn.

I glare at Torn, too. “I am being serious here, Torn -I am vouching for him. The night would have gone poorly for me and others if not for him.”

The brunette glances my way, giving me a look that asks if I am serious or not.

“As a heart attack.”

He sighs through his nose -the sound of the longsuffering. He steps up to Asshole, properly taking him in. Sizing him up. “What’s your name?”

“He’s Jak,” says the ottsel, jerking a furry finger towards the one he perches upon. “And I’m Daxter.”

Torn makes a face -a mix of confusion, disgust, and surprise- and I know he was not expecting the furry, little thing to talk. Perhaps I should have warned him… “Well Jak and Daxter,” he starts off slowly, recovering from his shock, “I have a task, and if you complete it, we’ll talk about you joining the Underground.”

“Name it,” Jak says.

Torn smiles, but it is nothing of joy or good will. He shakes his head softly at the boy, turning as he walks away. He places his hand against a stone on the nondescript wall; it opens up to reveal a passage leading down into deep darkness. “Steal the Baron’s banner from the top of the ruined tower in Dead Town and bring it back to me.”

“Done,” Jak agrees with ease.

I decide he really must be new to the city if he is okay with going to Dead Town -I do not even like going to Dead Town.

Torn’s smile is pitying as he takes his first step down into the darkness. I wonder if it is for me or for Jak. “You’re their sponsor now, Paarsa. See if they’re really worth it.”

I incline my head, and without another word, Torn disappears. The wall glides back into place.

Resisting my urge to sigh, I look ahead. Start planning and plotting. Not only how I will get out of the Slums, but how best to tackle Dead Town.

Ultimately, I decide we both need a rest before we do anything else. Food, too.

“Would you care to rest for a moment?” I ask of the boy I now know as Jak. “We did an awful lot of running, and have a lot more to do before the night is over.”

Jak inclines his head.

“And something to eat, too!” Daxter grouses. “I’m starving.”

* * *

I take them to a nearby safehouse -a nondescript shanty in a row of others just like it.

The Underground keeps it stocked with basic supplies: food, water, and changes of clothes. Beds for sleeping. Couches for lounging. A kitchen/dining area for eating. If it were ever raided, the guards would think it the same as any other. Nothing special.

The boys are clueless about cooking, so I prepare them a simple meal: stir-fried rice with veggies -a little bit of yakow meat for protein. It is scarce in the Slums, but I sense they need a proper meal.

I sit with them at the kitchen table, watching them scarf down their portions as I pick at my own. I am not particularly hungry, but I know I need to eat. I need the energy if I am going to make it through the night.

It is hard not to grin at them as they absolutely demolish my cooking, and impossible not to scoff and snort at Daxter when he announces my cooking skills are not too shabby -he will let me cook for him again sometime.

“Your name’s Paarsa, isn’t it?” Jak inquires of me once he has finished cleaning his plate. “I heard it used, but I wasn’t sure.”

I nod, realizing I never introduced myself properly -neither had he. It seems too late for it now. “Yeah, Paarsa. And I know you are Jak.” I point to the ottsel on his shoulder. “And you are Daxter.”

“Bingo,” says the ottsel, licking at his plate.

“Torn said you’re our sponsor now,” Jak goes on. “What does that mean?”

“It means I am overseeing you,” I explain, “I see how you operate. Judge your usefulness, and your ability to follow orders. I give my thoughts to Torn. He decides ultimately if you make it in or not.”

“That sounds an awful lot like babysitting,” Daxter observes, annoyed. I can see it on his face, the tired set of his eyes and the way his rounded, rabbit-like ears fall back flat against his head. His rounded nose even scrunches up a touch.

“It is an awful lot like babysitting,” I agree as I spoon a bite of rice into my mouth. They watch me chew with thinly-veiled glares of offense. “I am to make sure nothing catastrophic happens, to ensure neither of you die if things go wrong. …Torn may seem distrustful and aggressive towards you, but he does not want you dying.”

I pause a moment to take a draw of water from a chipped teacup. “He was vehemently against me joining the Underground when I came to him -he tried to frighten me off with knives and glares. He learned quickly neither affect me, and that I am useful.”

“What do you do for the Underground?” Daxter queries. “Not fight, I’m guessing. I mean, you left _all_ those guards to _us_ earlier.”

I narrow my eyes at him and his snatchy tone, but end up shaking my head. “No, I do not physically fight -not unless I have to. I am a supplier and a runner. I provide capital, and I carry information -we do not dare use comm systems for the really important intel. The Baron’s men are awfully good at intercepting and unscrambling signals.”

I take another sip of my water. “And right now, we use guerilla warfare. We strike quick and hard, then disappear into the shadows. Your fight in the street earlier was one of the bigger and showier confrontations we have had recently.”

Jak snorts. “That was barely a fight.”

“We cannot all channel eco,” I comment dryly.

He loses whatever humour he briefly held, face going drawn and serious. Anger burns in blue eyes he fixes upon his empty plate.

“You do not have to tell me anything,” I go on, choosing my words carefully. I want to illicit enough of an emotional response he answers my questions, but I do not want him becoming a demon in my borrowed kitchen. “But there are things I would like to know. Like if you were born with your channeling abilities or if…” I pause, thinking of how to broach the next topic, because I know it will make him angry. I do not like having to tiptoe around this boy, but with how unstable he has proven himself it is necessary.

“I heard you earlier when you said _he _did something to you,” I say, “and I assume that he was the Baron. So… I guess my question is if he made you the way you are.”

Jak does not blow up with rage, but he is certainly snatchy when he demands of me instead, “What about you? Were you… born or made?”

“Born,” I answer simply. “It is my greatest secret. If my father knew, he would tell the Baron. And I do not think any familial love would keep him from handing me over to the tyrannical asshole for experimentation.”

The boy with green-golden hair frowns deeply. I level a stare on him, one that says I would like an answer to my question.

He gets it eventually. Stops brooding long enough to huff out, “Both, I guess.”

“Jacky boy’s always had a talent for channeling eco,” Daxter elaborates, smiling with pride at his friend as he resumes his post on his shoulder. “Red, green, yellow, and blue -didn’t matter, he could use ‘em all! He even wielded white eco once! It made us heroes in our village.”

Jak looks bitter about it.

I make a small humming noise, impressed. Deeply impressed. It is so rare for anyone to have talent with any form of echo, for someone to have a talent with all of them is unheard of.

“But not dark eco,” I guess, “not until recently.”

Jak shakes his head.

I decide not to press that any further, having gathered enough from his words, actions, and my own inference. The Baron must have been tickled pink to find someone so versed in eco he tried to see if Jak could handle the roughest of the stuff -no one alive can. Their either killed outright or morphed…

“I just realized something about you, Daxter. You are no ordinary ottsel.”

He snorts. “No duh.”

“I am impressed. Dark eco kills those not strong enough.” I smile at him. “And here I thought you were just a sidekick.”

The ottsel looks like he does not know whether to be flattered or offended. Jak, on the other hand, snorts, looking amused.

“What about you?” the green-golden-blonde asks of me. “What kind of eco can you channel?”

“White,” I answer, giving him complete honesty since he has been honest with me. “Which allows me to tap into small amounts of other forms of eco, but…” My gaze goes to the dirtied window across the kitchen -to the night-dark sky choked with industrial smog and despair. “But it is so rare to find any eco that is not dark nowadays. This place is poison.”

The boys seem to agree with me, both nodding their heads solemnly as they drink from their own chipped tea cups.

I wait until they have put them down to say, “I trust you will keep my secret.” I glance between both of them, truly hoping they will.

“Your buddies in the Underground don’t know?” Jak guesses.

I shake my head. “They do not know how eco works, not really. If they knew about me, they would expect me to perform these grand feats, and I simply cannot. All I can manage are parlor tricks. I do not want to be a disappointment.”

“You calmed tall, dark, and gruesome over here down after a massive temper tantrum,” Daxter says. “_That’s_ impressive. But yeah, I can keep your secret.”

Jak looks wearily to his friend before nodding his assent. “So can I.”

I bless them both with one of my best smiles. “Then we are golden.”

* * *

Before we leave from the safehouse, I find both boys scarves. Well, I find one scarf -a red one- and I tear off a length of it for Daxter. I tell them it is not exactly good to breathe in the air of the Slums, so when out and about in the area, it is best to keep their noses and mouths covered. It is also a good way to disguise one’s face. To which I also produce a hood, and I make quick work of attaching it to Jak’s clothes.

I tell him he doesn’t have to wear it at night, but if he is going to be moving about during the day, he should keep it up. I tell them to always keep their heads down and eyes on their feet. Jak nods in understanding; Daxter pulls his small scarf over the lower portion of his face and demands to get the show of the road.

So we do.

We race through the midnight streets, sticking to the rooftops I know so well, and it is not long before we find the old, rusting door barring Dead Town from the rest of Haven City. They open with a bit of finagling, groaning as they do so. I motion Jak to enter first, keeping the door open, then dashing in before it has a chance to shut on me.

Dead Town used to be the hub of Haven City. Or so I have heard. I was not alive in its hey-day, nor during its downfall. But the dilapidated structures springing up from the toxic waters are all palatial -of magnificent proportions. Especially the decaying tower at the center of it all where the Baron’s crimson banner whips about in the night air. The wind is at a moan here, and my imagination cannot help but think it to be the collective sorrow of those who perished within Dead Town’s walls.

Even though I was not alive for the downfall of this portion of the city, I know its story well. The Metalheads attacked, and try as he might, the Baron could not drive them back. So, he retreated, closing off Dead Town from the rest of the city. He saved himself and his guards, leaving the civilians behind to be slaughtered.

He has always been a coward, despicable.

Jak and Daxter follow along after me. I keep our path alight with the soft silver-white glow I can summon to my hands. We creep through bulrush and crabgrass. Push our way through reeds and hop from small island to small island. Occasionally, we duck low and I extinguish my light, for the water moves. The spines of sizeable, amphibious lizards rise from the water, gliding in lazy circles before submerging once more.

At a certain point, once we have drawn closer to the tower, I relinquish control over to Jak.

“You lead the way now,” I tell him. “I have to see if you can navigate and find your own way. Problem-solve.”

He waves his hand. “I got this.”

I chuckle softly behind my scarf, shaking my hooded head at his hubris.

Jak takes only a moment to scope out his surroundings, and then he’s off, and I stay close behind him. We jump and roll and dangle. Scale crumbling walls. It is great fun. Exhilarating. I have to keep reminding myself not to take off ahead of him or go my own way.

He brings us to the base of the tower in no time, and pauses only to scope out his next route. The only assistance he asks for is a leg up, which I provide, then allow him to pull me up onto the ledge previously out of our reach. Then it is up, up, up. Scrambling when stone gives way beneath our feet.

We have to move fast. There is no time for thinking, only flinging ourselves forward after spotting a ledge or rusted flagpole to swing from.

We are both breathing heavy by the time we reach the top. Daxter proclaims the climb was too intense for him; he is winded.

Jak and I both shake our heads at him, saying nothing as we collect ourselves.

We recover around the same time, Jak drawing himself up straight to stride confidently to the edge of the tower where he claims the flowing red banner.

I watch him from behind, applauding as Daxter does a victory dance that brings laughter bubbling from my throat.

The joy is short-lived. A tremor shudders through the stone beneath my feet, then a sharp crack fills the air. The tower starts to lean.

I rush to the edge, looking for escape and finding it. A lower rooftop has an old line connecting it to another building further out in Dead Town. Jak spots it at the same time as I do -we stagger as the tower cracks and starts to come apart- and he wastes no time in jumping

I follow his lead, hands outstretched to snag on the wire. It cuts into my palm, but not too deeply. The bandages I bind my feet and hands with help protect them. I am quick to let loose the line with one hand, leaving myself dangling as I reach for the extendable pole I keep in a deep pocket in my trousers. A flick of the wrist, and I have a way to slide down the line. I propel myself forward with a swing of my legs, listening as the tower comes down fast behind me.

The line gives way as I near a small island floating in the mucky water, and once more I am left to propel myself out, hoping I reach it. The water here _literally _eats through flesh.

My feet hit the sand roughly, and I roll forward instead of face planting to come up relatively smoothly on my feet. Several feet away, Jak pulls himself upright, dusting sand off his trousers as he rubs at his flank. He must have landed on it.

“Much excitement tonight,” I comment, lighting my hands up to see the damage done by the wire. It is not too terrible -only a few stinging cuts along my palms and pads of my fingers. They have stained my bandages red. I peel them off as I focus my white light in the injured areas, and soon there is no stinging at all. No wounds, just faint scars.

“Any cuts or bruises you cannot bear?” I ask of Jak. “I can mend small things.”

“His ass is gonna be black and blue!” Daxter announces, snickering. “And there’s a whole lot of it, so I don’t know if can you fix it all.”

The green-golden-blonde shoots the ottsel on his shoulder a glare that only has Daxter smiling impishly. I cannot help but laugh at them.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures, his eyes picking over the bloodied bandages at my feet. “Your hands…?”

“Fine.” I hold out my palms to him. The only sign of my injury is the blood starting to crust. Then I stoop low to pluck up the pole I dropped, as well as the banner Jak must have dropped. I hold it out to him as I tuck my tool away. “You did well. Torn should be a little nicer once you present him with it.”

Jak takes the weathered cloth from my hands. “Is he the Shadow?”

I shake my head. “Second-in-Command. The Shadow stays in the shadows. Torn acts as his mouthpiece.”

“Can I meet the Shadow?”

I make an unsure, “hm,” sound. “Eventually, yes, but not anytime soon. There… there has to be a certain level of trust.”

“And I’m not even officially a member.”

I incline my head at that. “We will get you there, though.”

Jak spares me a look of uncertainty. Skepticism almost. Flashes of the fear and confusion I beheld in his eyes when I used my eco ability to soothe his darkness. “You want something from me, don’t you? That’s why you’re being so helpful.”

“Nothing more than you are willing to give,” I tell him frankly. “Nothing more than you have already offered. You said you want to fight the Baron, and I saw how effective you would be in doing so. The Underground would be foolish to turn you away, but Torn is known to be hesitant in taking in younglings like ourselves. I am making sure _you _make it, because I think you would be a benefit to our cause. Aside from that, I do not want anything from you. Not your life or death -or even your loyalty for that matter. I just want your assistance.”

Jak puffs up, and I think it must be at my calling him a youngling. But it is true. No matter how grown we think we are, those around us see us as fresh-faced babies. We have to work hard to make them see we are mature enough. Capable.

“I think you show promise,” I go on. “I also think you have anger issues that could potentially cause trouble. Both of which are things I will make note of in my report to Torn. I will also tell him you followed directions well, and were able to act independently with optimal results. I will not mention your dark eco channeling out of respect for your privacy.”

Tall, dark, and gruesome deflates. In fact, he seems a bit relieved.

I steer the conversation on to other topics. “Now, we have had a long night. How about we got back to the safehouse, and in the morning, we go see Torn?”

“Yeah.” Jak’s voice is a sigh; tired, but relieved. “That sounds very agreeable.”


	3. Breathe Easier

All of Haven City depends on the Pumping Station to supply its citizens with clean water for drinking and bathing, but the Slums have the greatest dependency. The most pressing need.

Half the district is flooded, but the water is poison -not flesh-eating like in Dead Town- but people are known to fall deathly ill from a sip or a dip of the toe. Boiling and straining the water is not enough to treat it. No one knows how to treat it -what chemical might be added to make it better- because no one knows what is in the water. Some think it toxic spillage from factories (which I completely agree with, because I have seen pipes belch out thick, tar-like sludge into the water before). Others think the Baron engineered some kind of contagion and released it into the water to kill off the poor. To try and rid the city of what most in the upper-classes perceive as a stain (it would not surprise me).

And so, my stomach sinks low as I turn the faucet handle of the safehouse’s kitchen sink and no water comes spilling out.

I do not immediately jump to conclusions. First, I check the pipes under the sink, seeing if they leak or if a valve is in need of turning, but everything seems to be in order. Then I head down into the basement to do a similar check. Everything is fine… but something is clearly wrong.

I dawn my scarf and cloak before I step outside into the early morning grey of the Slums. The streets are mostly barren at this hour, but I see Krimzon Guards moving about. They are on the prowl earlier than usual. Numbers still increased.

I make myself as unnoticeable as possible as I creep to the door of the nearest neighbor, and I knock softly.

A slot in the door opens up; a green eye peers through.

“Sorry to bother you, neighbor, but is your water running?” I ask softly, politely.

“No, it hasn’t been since last night,” they answer, and I can hear all the worry in their voice. “No one’s has. There are rumors that the Baron shut the water off to all of the Slums.”

I curse softly to myself before thanking them for their time and apologizing once more for interrupting their morning. The slot closes; I scurry back to the safehouse.

Jak is in the kitchen when I step back in, Daxter draped over his shoulder still sleeping. “The water isn’t running,” he informs, “and not because I broke the handle or anything.” He opens his hand to show me a faucet knob. “It just popped off in my hand, I swear.”

I almost laugh, but end up shaking my head as I take the knob from his hand and stride quickly over to the sink. “It is fine. Do not worry about it.” I fix it back into place; Jak makes a sort of “harrumph” noise. “The water is not working because the water is off. The Baron had it done -at least, that is what the neighbors say.”

“Can we fix it?” Jak queries, leaning on a nearby cabinet.

I nod. “Yeah. I know where the valves and everything are, but it is the matter of getting to them -seeing if they are destroyed or clogged or simply switched off.” Part of me is worried the guards might have wrecked the pipework so there is no fixing it, so that we die. So that more than just the Underground suffers. I sigh explosively. “I really, _really _hate the Baron.”

“Get in line,” Jak says. “And don’t bother trying to kill him, I have first dibs.”

I do laugh at that, turning on the boy to see he is being completely serious, but the ghost of a smile curves his lips.

“I will let you kill him,” I allow, “but you have to let me watch.”

He nods as if he finds that agreeable. “Now, what are we going to do about this?” He gestures to the sink. “Bitch about it or go and do something?”

“Both,” I say, spinning on my heel, “but we need to go see Torn first. …You ready?”

His answer is to dawn his hood and pull his scarf into place before heading out the door.

I follow after.

* * *

I take Jak down into the superficial part of the Underground’s base: a small, squared away room resting at the bottom of the dark staircase Torn disappeared down the day before. It is dominated by a massive table littered with maps and important-looking documents. Anti-Baron propaganda line the walls, as do lockers for storing gear.

But this is just a set-up. None of the maps have anything particularly important marked on them, and the documents basically just say, “Fuck you,” in code. Nothing of value is kept here. Nothing damaging to the cause. It is meant to look like our base of operations, but is nothing more than a decoy.

Torn stands behind the large table at the center of the room, and Jak and I wait patiently on the side while he finishes up talking with a few of my fellow operatives. Once they are gone, I beckon Jak forth, and he presents Torn with the flag.

The ex-Krimzon-Guard-Captain cracks a smile. It had been bothering him for the longest that the Baron’s flag still flew above Dead Town -the town the damnable man had forsaken.

“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Good job, kid…” He looks to me, motioning for me to follow him off to a corner of the room where he asks for my honest opinion on Jak and Daxter.

And I give it to him: a glowing report marred by only two issues -Jak’s arrogance and anger issues.

“Yeah, he seems kind of crotchety,” Torn agrees, eyes flicking over to the boy who sits in a distant corner talking with his ottsel friend. “But you vouched for him. He did what I asked. So, I guess he’s in.”

“You tell him that.”

Torn whistles sharply, calling out a, “Hey Jak!”

The boy’s attention snaps in our direction. He raises a brow in question.

“You’re in,” Torn says simply.

Jak’s responding smirk is the single smuggest expression I have ever seen.

Torn and I both shake our heads, the Second-in-Command murmuring, “The boy’s gonna be trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble,” I say, easily guiding the conversation to the next pressing matter.

“We need to get you home-.”

“We need to do something about the water-.”

Torn and I interrupt one another, then both seal our mouths. Clearly, we are about to disagree on what is the more pressing matter.

“I am working on it,” I spout out quickly before he has a chance to say more. “It is just a matter of catching a guard unawares, but they have been travelling in packs since last night.”

“I had similar thoughts, and found similar issues,” Torn admits. “But what I was about to get around to is this other idea I’ve had. The ammunition plant is full of guards, there’s bound to be one security pass lying about. While we’re in, we blow up the cache. Two birds; one stone.”

My eyebrows rise drastically beneath the cover of my hood. “A bold move -are you sure we are ready?”

“It’s something I’ve been planning for a while,” he admits. “And earlier this morning, I was watching the shift change at the factory, watching as the guards scanned their security cards, and I thought about all the times the men in my unit would just leave them on the table in the breakroom. In the latrines. Everywhere they weren’t supposed to be. And I decided a covert sneak in and shoot ‘em up was better than ambushing them on the streets. We do that, and they’ll tear through the Slums.” 

“They will tear through the Slums after their ammo goes up in smoke.”

“No, they’ll be after him.” Torn inclines his head towards Jak. “Not us.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you planning?”

“Some interesting news came in about our new boy late, late last night,” Torn says. “He literally _just_ escaped from prison -he’s a wanted man. I saw his face at one of the news kiosks. So, I send him in the factory. The Baron sees his face on their security cameras, and thinks he’s taking revenge on him. Jak grabs a security card, and I have him take you home immediately. His face is recognizable. In come reports that he’s all over the city -not bumming around the Slums.”

I shake my head, not liking the scheme he concocted the least little bit. “Your plan has too many assumptions, and you are putting all the heat on him.”

It does not seem fair to me.

“That’s fine with me,” Jak casually drawls, and I look over my shoulder to see him and Daxter watching us both intently. “I want him to know it’s me who’s hurting him.”

A full grin takes Torn’s lips, and he moves away from me -away from the conversation, away from whatever I will say. “That’s what I like to hear! You sure did bring me a good one, Paarsa.”

“Oh, fuck you, Torn,” I growl, unable to keep my composure. Bite my tongue.

I hate the thought of someone risking their neck for me. I got myself stuck -I did not go home immediately yesterday like I should have. And I doubly hate he is making Jak into his scapegoat. I know why he is doing it. He wants the Baron’s attention anywhere but on the Underground, and Jak’s the perfect diversion. A wanted criminal busting through Haven City like a wild man? The Underground will cease being public enemy number one; Jak will gain that title. We will be able to breathe easier, but Jak will be hunted mercilessly.

It does not sit well with me. I did not bring Jak here to die for us -did I not just tell him I did not want his life or death?

Torn whirls on me, a warning look in his eyes. I match it. I know he is my superior. I know I am supposed to follow his orders without question, but that would not make me any better than a Krimzon Guard. Blindly following orders is what makes men like the Baron into the Baron, what allows them to seize control and stay in control.

“I don’t care,” Jak says, ending our stare down. “The whole city can be after me. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever I can if it means I’m getting back at him.”

There is an unwavering resolve in his eyes. A darkness and deep hatred that eats up the sky blue.

It occurs to me Jak does not care if he lives or dies. It only matters that he takes down the Baron with him. That he spends the rest of his time making Praxis’ life living hell.

The dark eco infesting him is going to eat him alive if he goes on like that -if he commits himself to such a hate-filled path.

He is a ticking time bomb.

I am not okay with it. I know he is a stranger, but I am not okay with it –I would not be okay with anyone doing this.

“You heard him, Paarsa,” Torn says, his voice low. A warning tone. “And it’s his decision ultimately.”

I sigh through my nose. “I am aware.”

I do not like it.

“Why don’t you go down to the Pumping Station and see if there’s anything to do about getting the water back on,” Torn suggests. He frames it in such a way it is as if I have a choice in the matter, but I know it is an order.

He wants me out of here, out of the way. So I do not say anything that makes him feel guilty, so I do not try to ruin his plans with my damnable empathy.

I do not say a word to him as I turn on my heel and head up the steep staircase leading to the dead-end alley. And once the sliding door stops grinding along the tracks, sealing me off from Torn, I curse up a storm. Pace around the alley. At one point, I lie down on the nasty street and scream my frustration down into the stone.

And then I sit up with the stiffness of a robot, feeling hollowed out inside. Guilty. I brought Jak here. I told Torn it would be a good idea to bring him in, but I did not think we would use him like this. It just seems so dirty, and I went and told him we wanted nothing more than what he was willing to give.

I did not know he was willing to give his whole damn self. I did not know Torn would immediately make him a scapegoat.

I feel as if I sentenced him to death. As if I am sitting back and watching as he strides towards a noose.

“Hey.”

My eyes, which had been on the grey sky above, fall to Jak. He stands before the wall I had not heard open -both him and Daxter look mildly uncomfortable. They probably saw at least part of my tantrum, and maybe I should be embarrassed, but I am not. I am just angry.

“Hey,” I respond.

“Torn told me to give you a ride to the Pumping Station.”

I rise stiffly to my feet. “Okay.”

Wordlessly, I lead him to where we keep a few zoomers stashed, and find the one Torn had given Jak the keys to. It is a double-seater model. Dull purple. There are hundreds just like it floating around the city.

I climb into the passenger seat, not bothering to ask Jak if he knows how to drive it. If everyone around me is going to be so blasé when it comes to their lives, then I might as well join the party.

I huff at myself as Jak turns the key in the ignition, thinking I am being dramatic now. That I care too damn much.

Someone has to.

But it is always me.

I sit back deeply into my seat as Jak rather smoothly guides the zoomer from the garage and into the sky, deciding that I am tired of myself. I am tired of today, and it is not even noon.

* * *

I do not have to guide Jak to the Pumping Station. Torn gave him a map, and he figures out how to use it after a few wrong turns. Soon enough, we are gliding over the waterfront, and Daxter makes a disgusted noise as he comments about how shit-brown the water is.

“It is mostly sewage,” I say, and they are probably the first words I have said since we left base.

“Everything in the Slums so… uh… slummy?”

“It is called the Slums for a reason.”

Daxter sticks his tongue out at me; Jak’s lips quirk amusedly.

Then I see his face change. See the curve of his mouth become a frown of confusion, and how his brows furrow as his eyes dart to the left.

“Do you see something?” I ask of him.

He shakes his head. “I just have a… a weird feeling…”

He pulls the zoomer left with such an abruptness that Daxter goes flying into my lap, and I have to hold onto the seat bars to keep myself from tumbling out of the zoomer altogether. The ottsel holds onto me for dear life as Jak suddenly takes us down, maneuvering between the rickety struts of the docks.

My heart is in my stomach when we come to a stop at a low pier beneath an abandoned building at the edges of the Slums. Its windows are all boarded up, and it is tagged with the word, “INFESTED” in bright, bold red. There are dozens of buildings around the Slums just like it. Too rodent littered and hazardous for even the squatters.

Jak turns off the zoomer and hops down onto the pier. I watch him curiously for a moment, then meet Daxter’s questioning gaze, before clambering out after him.

The ottsel stays perched on my shoulder as I trail behind, stepping softly and lightly, wary of nails and splinters burrowing into my bare feet. We catch up to Jak as he is loosening the boards blocking our entrance through the front door. He frees one, two, tossing both into the water. When he places his hand against the stone door, it parts for him.

He stoops low to pass under the remaining boards, slipping into the warehouse. I follow after him, Daxter still clinging to my shoulder.

It is dark upon entering. The air heavy, tingling with a strange presence that has me feeling completely out of place. Then lights suddenly fill the air, the soft glow of a hundred candles lining the walls and rafters. A ragged breath leaves me, and I realize it is not me who is out of place, but the building itself.

I do not know how the Krimzon Guards -how the Baron- could have missed this place. Could have missed the ancient Oracle at the far side of the room.

It is a massive, heavily-built statue, carved from stone that glimmers like gold. Plated with precious metals we no longer have the means to harvest or craft with. Its face is insectoid, with large, empty eyes shining with blue light. Its nose is a hollowed-out indention on its face, and a large proboscis extends pass it, scraping at the floor.

They are from ancient times -from when the Precursors walked the earth, before they vanished. They were the most advanced civilization to ever exist even though they existed before all. They knew how to channel eco in ways we can’t begin to imagine. Their grand cities scattered the world.

But they are gone now. Their cities and artifacts lost to time.

“Oh great,” Daxter groans, his head bumping into mine, “more Precursor crap.”

I look to him with eyes blown wide. “Crap? They were a people ahead of their time! Geniuses!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daxter says, waving his hand in my face to dismiss me. “If they were so smart and so fancy, then why are they dead now, huh?”

“We do not know that they are dead!”

He huffs. “They might as well be.”

I shake my head in disbelief at him. I want to throw him at Jak, give him back his furball friend.

But Jak had crept forward, drawing closer and closer to the statue. I follow after him, going only a few steps when it speaks.

“Greetings, great warrior.” Its voice is gravely, strange. Echoed by soft whispers. It has me standing perfectly still. Barely breathing. “I sensed you drawing close, sensed the dark rage within you. …In time, it will devour you. Destroy you with its madness.”

Jak does not look surprised to hear it. Nor upset. There is only the latent rage the Oracle speaks of.

And I am filled with deep upset. Hating that I was right in my earlier thoughts.

“And you…”

The Oracle’s gaze is on me, like a physical weight, and I feel naked beneath it.

“A flickering white light. You could burn brighter. Brighter and brighter until you are consumed. Gladly, you would burn.”

I have never in my life heard something so ominous.

“I can help you both,” it says, “only the last power of the Precursors can save you. But I need you to destroy -destroy my enemies, those creatures you call the Metalheads. Bring me their skull gems, and I will teach you.”

The candles go out, as if each wick was pinched at the exact same moment, leaving us in darkness. In stunned silence. Even smartass Daxter doesn’t have anything to say.

I allow light to flood into my hands, but the darkness around me is so complete it seems to absorb my brightness. I cannot see a thing -not even the ottsel on my shoulder. There is only the dimming light in my hands.

“Ooh,” Daxter mumbles lowly, “it’s like… like advanced darkness… Jak! Jak! Hey Jak! Where are ya, buddy?” In a ghostly moan, he says, “Follow the sound of my voice…”

“You know what, Daxter?” I say, shooting the furball a smile. I can just make out his silhouette crouching there. “I am starting to appreciate the levity you bring to situations. Because that was great. That was just what I needed to hear.”

The ottsel laughs. “What can I say? I’m the number one side-kick, the best provider of comic relief.”

My light seems to shine a little brighter; the darkness to thin.

“I am inclined to agree,” I murmur softly before turning my attention outwards, stepping towards where I am certain I last saw Jak before the darkness swallowed us up.

I do not spy him until I am about to run into him, and it is as if he materialized before me. Like the darkness spat him out right in my path.

His shoulders are hunched. His eyes are dark, inky pools trained upon his feet. He is the reason the darkness is so thick, so tangible.

Daxter hops from my shoulder to his and starts patting him on the face with his small hands. “Hey, hey. Snap out of it! C’mon. We got things to do. Security passes to steal. Ammo to blow up. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

The darkness thins, my glow begins to creep further outwards. Eat up some of the darkness.

As I had once before, I expose my palms to Jak, showing him I hold nothing to harm him. I will not harm him. “Might I hold your hand?” I ask of him.

A clawed hand stirs at his side, as if wanting to reach for mine. I take that as consent, and wrap my own around it.

I will my light and warmth into his hands, picturing my high cliff at the pumping station. A sunset this time, the sky painted pink, purple, and orange. I see the distant stars beginning to shine. Feel how the grass beneath me had gone cool, and the brine-y scent of the ocean filled my nose.

“It might not seem like it -not right now- but it will be okay,” I tell him softly. “You are allowed to be angry. Vengeful. But do not let that be all that you are.”

“Where… is that?” Jak asks of me. I open my eyes to see he looks at me with mostly normal eyes -they are a deep, inky blue. Not the sky blue I think to be normal. But it is close; it is good.

I cock my head curiously at him.

“When you do that, I see images. I smell the ocean. I feel the wind and grass.”

“Oh!” I blink in surprise, releasing his hand. “I was not aware you could see it. I just… when I channel my eco, I think on my happy places. Times when I felt at peace.”

“I want to see that place,” he tells me, and this time it is him wrapping his hand around mine. He hauls me to the door my light now plainly illuminates.

“Sure,” I agree with ease, “you were taking me there anyway.”

Jak does not say a word, but Daxter smiles over his shoulder at me, giving me a thumbs-up.

* * *

The drive to the Pumping Station door is a short one. Honestly, we probably could have walked, but somehow the short confrontation with the Oracle had been both mentally and physically draining.

“We’ve been dealing with cryptic bullshit like that for _years_,” Daxter tells me as I get the rusty, old door open. “Never gets any less annoying, or any clearer. Precursors, man. Bunch of weirdos.”

“Something like that has happened before?” I query, cocking my head to the side at them as I beckon them through the door, then step in quickly after.

Jak gives an affirming grunt. He had gone from horrendously angry to downright broody, and it is giving me whiplash.

Daxter starts to say more, but Jak puts a hand over his mouth. The ottsel’s ears fall back against his head, his eyes narrowing in annoyance, but he drops the subject. And I know not to press the subject further -I know to change it.

“Anyway,” I say, opening the second door -it groans and creaks as it rolls open, “here you have it. The Pumping Station.”

Jak steps onto the sand before me, but I follow right behind, watching as his sky-blue eyes pick around. There is something in them other than anger for the moment. Nostalgia, I think. He looks almost wistful, and Daxter gives a little laugh as he jumps off his shoulder to lay back in the sand.

“Reminds me of home,” the ottsel sighs dreamily. “Smells, but that’s okay.”

Jak nods as if he agrees.

And I wonder where exactly they came from. If perhaps there is a beach-side city somewhere out there that survived the Metalheads. But I do not ask. I do not think Jak would answer me, and it might just make him moodier.

“My spot is further back,” I tell him, pointing towards a high cliff foggy with distance. “Less machinery that way. More palm trees. Closer to the sun.”

Jak takes a step forward as if to make for it, but he stops. “Later,” he tells himself before looking over his shoulder at me. “I have to get back to Torn. Will you be alright here by yourself?”

I nod. “I come here often. I will be fine.”

My answer satisfies him, for he does not hang around for much longer than it takes Daxter to climb back onto his shoulder. The ottsel tells me to be careful. I assure him I will be, and I wish them both good luck on the mission I wish they were not going along with.

I recognize the mission’s success could help the Underground -it could help everyone in the Slums. I do not always see it at first. No, I get caught up in smaller details. In saving one person. But in war, one has to focus on the bigger picture. The survival of the whole. I know there are sacrifices that have to be made. Blood to be shed.

I know I will never be okay with it -especially when I play a hand in it- but I have to deal with it.


	4. Hang-dog Eyes

Mercifully, the pipework to the Slums are not destroyed -but the valve is screwed tight, and it takes me an eternity of pushing and pulling to get it to budge even an inch. I work on it for an hour or more, slowly rotating it enough for water to come trickling through. I feel utterly pathetic. Weak. But triumph floods through me when the pipes vibrate with the water finally rushing through them at a roar.

I sit back on the platform once my task is complete with no desire whatsoever to move -to do anything else. And I do not have anywhere else to be. Torn will not send Jak into the factory until nightfall, so I will not be getting my security pass home until late in the night -if I get my security pass.

I should not be doubtful. I think Jak can pull it off. He has powerful dark eco abilities, and is clearly some kind of chosen one. An Oracle spoke to him. Recognized him as a “great warrior”.

It spoke to me, too. I have not really thought on that before now. I am smart enough to know what its words mean. It told me I could burn brighter and brighter -which I am taking as I have untapped potential with my white eco channeling- and it offered me the means to.

I want to be useful. I want to be able to save people. I would love to be able to heal more than small cuts and bruises -be more than a torch or a side-show magician with my little parlor tricks.

In my head, there exists an image of me. Of what I could be. What I could do. They are brilliant. A beacon of silver-white light.

But the me that I am, I am just a spark.

Most fires start out that way.

I rise to my feet, reaching for the hunting knife Torn gifted to me just to make sure it is there. I feel its handle sticking from its sheath. The cool bite to the metal. I check my deep pockets for my extendable pole, wondering if it has enough weight to it to do some damage. Perhaps not kill anything, but knock it silly long enough for me to make the killing blow with my knife.

I have never gone after a Metalhead before. No, I often run from them. But if the Oracle wants skull gems, I will bring it skull gems.

* * *

Usually, I see a dozen or so Metalheads when running about the Pumping Station platforms, but today they have been oddly absent. It has been quiet. I have seen signs of them: scratches on the palm trees and rocks, the desecrated remains of fish and lizards spread across the beach, and pawprints in the sand. But I have not actually seen them.

Concern grows within me, then I catch a glimpse of a reddish hide amongst a cluster of frond plants.

The Metalheads are supposed to be intelligent, but I cannot quite believe it as I watch the monstrous thing roll about in the plants. It chews and paws and whuffs, and for a moment, I honestly think it cute.

I am not sure I can kill it -I have never actually killed anything. I am trained to -Torn made sure of that- but I have never had the want or the occasion.

I was reserving my first kill for the Baron -my father, maybe- but Jak called dibs. I must honour the dibs.

“I can do this,” I murmur to myself. “Think about what its ilk have done to the world.”

For a half hour, I crouch on the platform, watching as the stupid, dopey Metalhead rolls around like a dog.

Dangerous, idiotic, thoughts begin to fill my head. What if Metalheads can be reasoned with? Tamed? Is coexistence possible? Do we really have to be at war with them _and _the Baron? The enemy of my enemy is my friend -that is how the saying goes, is it not?

I am starting to think something is wrong with me and the Metalhead.

And after another fifteen minutes of watching the mutt, I decide to do something stupid.

I drop down to the sand a fair-ways away from it, and wade into the dark waters of the ocean where I am able to pick a dead fish out of the surf. There are loads of them scattered about, which is why I think the Pumping Station is so congested with Metalheads. …Maybe there is a buffet of fish further in, and that is where they have all gone. To feast. The little guy in the thicket got left behind, but I do not think it minds. It is very clearly having a lovely time.

I hope it likes fish more than the taste of human flesh.

I pick my way back onto the beach, back to where the Metalhead still rolls about in the foliage.

I do not get too close. No, I stop a fair distance away and whistle sharply.

It sits up immediately, a thick tongue like bronzed silver -very similar to the metal plating its hide- hanging from a maw dripping with slobber. One of its four golden eyes -the top one on the left side- appears to have been gouged out. The other three come to rest on me, then on the fish I hold out.

“My name is Paarsa,” I tell it. I do not know why I do. It is polite.

It rises from its haunches, padding through the sand on all fours, but once it is within a few feet of me, it rises onto its hind legs, walking like a man would.

My heart drops into my stomach. I do not know what I was thinking. This thing is _massive. _It is a killing machine. Its kind have devoured the world. Made it so humankind exists only in small pockets.

It cranes its neck, sniffing at the fish in my hand. Its horrendously muscular tongue flaps out of its mouth again, and takes to licking the fish all over.

It runs against my hand, wrist, and arm, and feels like taught, wet wire against my skin. I almost gag, and most certainly am I shaking. This is the first time I have ever been afraid of one of these things -they are not scary to me from far away. Not when I am up on a high shelf, out of their reach.

But I put on a front. A mask. I make myself stop shaking, make myself swallow down my fear.

“Rude of you,” I chastise the Metalhead. “I offered you the fish.” I shake the dead thing at it, and its tongue immediately slips back down to the fish, wrapping tightly around it before it jerks it back into its mouth.

The sounds are sharp and crunching. Wet, sloppy, and slurping. I feel my face contort in disgust as I watch.

Then its tongue comes back to me, nudging at my hand. It gives a whiney, impatient growl.

“More?”

Its tongue wraps around my wrist, and my heart stops dead in my chest. The grip is tight, so tight it hurts, and I gulp as I watch its hands stir at its sides. Claws extending and retracting.

“No,” I tell it firmly, trying to jerk my wrist back. It will not relinquish its grip; no, its tongue only slides up my arm.

I am surprised I am able to draw my knife as quick as I am able to, relieved when it snatches its tongue back into its mouth after I hold the sharp edge of my blade hard against it.

“I was trying to be nice to you,” I tell it, hearing no fear in my voice. Honestly, I sound pissed-off. “Do you have no manners?”

It looks almost sheepish. Guilty. Backing away from me with hang-dog eyes.

Once again, I think something might be wrong with this Metalhead. I am almost positive. Now that I am looking at it closely, it appears emaciated. Skinnier than most I have seen -smaller, I think. Still massive -it is taller than me on its hind legs- but not as imposing. And the others surely would have eaten me as soon as looked at me.

“Are you the runt of your litter?” I ask it.

It does not respond of course, and I just keep on talking.

“I have seen your kin. They are a lot more muscular -bigger. Are they not feeding you?”

It cocks its head to the side at me.

“Do you want more fish?”

Its three golden eyes go wide at the word, and it drops down onto all fours, sniffing at the air. At me again. Checking to see if I have more.

Fuck me, it is cute again.

I really am an idiot.

“Come on, then.” I beckon it to follow after me.

And it does. It trots after me like a loyal dog, and will not dare go near the water once we have reached the ocean’s edge. It jumps back when the waves come lapping at it.

No wonder the damned thing’s so puny. It is too scared of the surf to get a meal, and in its emaciated state, it stands no chance against its brothers when it comes to fighting for the ones that wash up on the beach. It is a miracle it has survived.

I am able to find a few more fish floating about. Most of them nibbled on by other fish, but it is enough to make the Metalhead happy. It gobbles them down in a snap when I toss them on the shore, then makes a strange, throaty yip as if asking for more.

I eventually slosh my way back onto the sand, my trousers soaked and the reek of dead fish thoroughly wedged into my nose. The Metalhead watches every step I take from where it sits back on its haunches.

“Can you understand me?” I ask of it, not getting too close. “Even a little?”

It sort of nods, but I am certain it is more of a coincidence than anything -almost positive when it sneezes in the middle of the nod.

I decide to pretend it can.

“I… I do not know why I decided this was a good thing to do,” I babble at it. “Well, I did not decide it was a good thing. I knew it was a bad thing but I did it anyway just to see if I could. I did not expect you to behave. I thought I would be forced to kill you because you would come at me relentlessly.”

It plops down on its stomach in the sand, watching me curiously as its ridged tail lazily thumps back and forth.

“Can we strike a deal, my biomechanical friend?” I come to sit before it, and its tail wags harder. “When I come here, I will fish for you. As many as I can find, I will give to you.”

It rests its head upon it paws, its tail wagging furiously, kicking sand up everywhere.

“And you… you have to help me hunt your kin.”

It pauses at that, going deathly still. It even narrows its eyes at me, as if to ask if I am serious or not.

I cannot decide if this thing is an idiot or just playing dumb.

“You are probably thinking, ‘Why would I want to do that, Paarsa?’, and I will tell you why.” I point to its gouged-out eye. “To me, it looks as if one of your ilk scored that blow. And it also looks like they have left you here for some reason. You are the only Metalhead I have seen all day.”

It looks about, left and right and all about. It even hops to its feet to scent the air.

“I guess you did not notice until my mentioning it.”

The noise it emits sounds like an unhappy harrumph as it plops back down on the ground.

“Do they do that often?”

Its snout buries in the sand.

“I am taking that as a yes.”

The sand puffs up as it gives a mighty snort.

“I will be your friend, and if you do not know what that is, it basically means I will scratch your back if you scratch mine. It is a mutually beneficial relationship. You get fish -and if you want a literal back scratch, I will give you a back scratch. But I will also help you get payback. I mean, can you honestly say to yourself you like any of the others? Have they ever been kind to you? Or do they just leave you to fend for yourself?”

It lifts its chin, lifting a clawed hand to bring it down upon the sand. The weird series of growls it gives sounds like a, “Dammit, you are right.”

“So, you are in agreement?”

It makes an angry chuffing sound.

“Great.” I extend a hand to the Metalhead. “Give me one of your paws.”

It lifts a hand, bigger than four of mine, and I take it into both of mine to shake firmly. “We are friends now, and as your friend, I will pick a name for you since you cannot tell me yours -if you even have one.”

“I am Paarsa,” I remind it. “And now you are Amanat.”

Its low churring noise sounds of pleasure.

* * *

Amanat leads me deeper into the Pumping Station when I ask it where its kin have gone. It stays well ahead of me, sniffing and checking corners, and only occasionally checking over its shoulder to see if I still follow.

I do, being as thorough in my investigations as it is. I am not just going to waltz around this place openly. I have to be careful. Quiet. I am already uncomfortable enough as it is, sticking to the ground instead of high perches.

There are not many where it leads me, only a few outcroppings of rock protruding from the sand barely big enough to hide behind. But it is close to the walls of Haven City, which is for once a relief. It feels as if I do not have far too run if I have to run.

Ahead of me, Amanat makes a soft huffing noise, and I follow it behind a rock large enough for the both us to crouch behind. I peer around it to find a mass of Metalheads gathered around a large sewage pipe. They’re moving about, pushing barrels of some unknown substance about; loading them onto the backs of gigantic, insectoid Metalheads that take off into the air once they can carry no more, they’re massive, translucent wings beating hard in the setting sun.

They spirit the barrels away, and I am left gaping. Wondering what in the hell I am seeing.

“What…? Amanat,” I draw my head back into the cover the rock provides, “do you know anything about this?”

It makes a strange sound at me as it comes to sit beside me, too screechy and throaty for me to understand.

“Would you say that again? Uh… slower, maybe?”

The chirruping, gravely noise it emits almost sounds like, “Eeeee-co. Eeeee-co.”

I blink. Several times. Slump back against the rock as I wonder what I am supposed to think of that. What it possibly means.

The Metalheads are taking eco from the city. They have a way in and out, and they’ve been utilizing it. Wouldn’t they have attacked us by now -like really attacked us? Swarmed up through the sewers and slaughtered us all?

Amanat gives another series of strange noises that sort of sound like, “Barrrron. Barrrron.”

“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter, not needing anything more to piece together what I saw.

The Baron is supplying the Metalheads with eco. Clearly it is not to keep them from attacking us, because they still do. They mount attacks against the walls. Kill guards -which I am not complaining about, the less Krimzon Guards the better.

What if… what if he is bribing them? It is a well-known fact the Baron is still in power because of the fear he has instilled in the masses -not just of him, but of the Metalheads waiting right outside our walls. He has convinced many he is the only thing keeping us safe, and what if he has maintained this lie by sating the Metalheads with just enough eco to keep them from truly ravaging us? What if they attack at a frequency and magnitude just enough to keep us simple-minded and blinded by our fear?

Forget hunting the Metalheads for today, I have to get out of here -back to Torn. I have to tell him what I saw.

“Amanat, would you give me a lift back to the doors?” I ask of my new, very helpful friend who is not nearly as stupid as it had me believing at first.

“Ffffrish,” it churrs at me. “Ffffrish.”

“Of course I will give you fish,” I tell it. “Such is the bargain we made.”

It lowers itself close enough to the ground for me to climb aboard, and I hold on tight as it takes off across the sand.

The ride is incredibly bumpy -I am sore within seconds- but we cover so much ground so quickly that it is worth it. The world is a green-blue-sandy blur as Amanat charges forward, and the wind stings my cheeks, so strong it pushes back my hood to truly let me taste the sunset and breeze.

I cannot help but laugh -grin like a fool. This is so much more fun than a ride in a zoomer!

My joy is short-lived. It is abruptly cut off when something comes ramming into Amanat’s side like a freight-carrier. I am flung off Amanat’s back, sent rolling through the sand, and it gets _everywhere. _In my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Down my shirt and trousers. When I finally stop rolling, I find myself half in the surf, not only sandy but sodden

In my shock, it takes me a moment to right myself, to wipe the sand from my eyes and see what hit us.

The Metalhead is much, much bigger than Amanat. Three times its size, and its metal plating much thicker and plentiful. It’s blue-spotted hide even manages to look like armor, polished and gleaming in the sun’s last lingering rays.

It towers over Amanat, bearing down on it with teeth and claws like splintered steel, and all Amanat can do is screech and scratch, but it does not make a dent. No, it was caught unawares, unprepared for this. And even if it had not been, it is truly too puny to stand up to its aggressor.

I scramble to my feet, dashing through the sand as I fumble for my knife.

I do not feel very confident when it is in my hand. What good could my small blade do against this Metalhead? This plated terror?

I try not to think how pitiful my death will be as I launch myself at the monster before it can slaughter Amanat. Whatever I grab, I latch onto it, holding tight as I drive my knife down over and over again. My first few attempts chink off metal, but with a squelch, it meets and pierces hide. Hot, viscous oil-like blood pumps out around my hand, and I lose my grip on the handle when the Metalhead rears back to roar and shake its body fiercely to rid itself of me.

I hold on for my very life, hands searching for the wound I made. I find it and dig my fingers down into it, tearing and wrenching at the split flesh.

My ears bleed at the agony the Metalhead screeches into the air, and the breath is knocked from me as it falls backwards, crushing me under its considerable weight.

My vision goes spotty as my face is pressed into the sand, and every breath I pull in is choked with sand. My body screams and fights under the pressure, against the suffocation.

Suddenly, I can breathe again. The weight is gone, and I can roll over onto my back to see the stars against the velvet-blue background of the heavens.

My head falls to the side, where a few yards away from me, Amanat rips the Metalhead’s throat out.

And now it is Amanat ravaging it, devouring the flesh of its kin and looking ten-times more threatening than I have witnessed in my few short hours of knowing it. I cannot believe I approached such a killing machine, or I had thought it cute as it rolled about the brush.

When it has finished with its meal, it pads over to me, oil-slicked hide absolutely a glimmer in the rising moon. Its wet snout prods at me, and my shaking hand lifts to pat it.

“D-Do you still need fish?” I ask it. My voice is weak and breathy, shaking.

“Ffffrulll,” it churrs at me, “ffffrulll.”

Its teeth are suddenly at my neck, and I am too battered to even react. But Amanat does not bite down on my throat; no, it gets a good grip on my hood then rises to its back legs, pulling me off the ground to set me upon my feet.

I am too wobblily-legged to stand without its assistance. I am going to be so bruised. So sore.

But I am alive, and eternally grateful to Amanat as it stoops low once more, letting me fall onto its back.


	5. Certain Calls

I consider it a miracle I manage to make it back to the Underground base. That the guards did not stop me as I slouched my way through the streets, a sodden, sandy, oil-streaked mess. Their attention must be elsewhere, and I have a very good idea of where.

I do not have the energy to be worried about it. I am simply relieved when my hand finds the stone to the base’s entrance and the dark stairs open up for me. I keep my hand on the rail as I descend, the grind of stone against stone as the secret door slides into place a dull roar at the back of my head.

I step into the façade of a base to find it empty. I am not surprised. Torn will be keeping close eyes on the factory as Jak rips through it. Everyone else is out and about on their own tasks no doubt, and those with the night off are probably further below, conked out in their bunks.

I am fine with the emptiness. I do not want anyone seeing me like this.

My sore muscles groan at me as I strip out of my ruined clothes, and my white eco barely glows as I try to relieve some of my strain.

Oh well…

I find a change of clothes amongst the scattered gear in the lockers, as well as a roll of the bandages I like so much. After wrapping my hands and feet again, I dawn my new scarf and cloak, fixing them to shield my face so Torn cannot see how worn I am when he returns. And then I sink back into a creaking, wooden chair.

I do not remember much after that. I doze off almost immediately, only rousing when a rough hand on my shoulder shakes me back into awareness.

“Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.”

Torn’s voice has me drawing my drooping head upright, and I am relieved to find him, Jak, and Daxter in the room with me. Torn is very clearly in good spirits -he wears a broad, triumphant smile- and Jak and Daxter look pretty smug as well. Dirtied, but smug. Victorious, I suppose.

“We got your security pass,” my boss tells me, flashing the red card in front of my eyes before dropping it onto my lap. “We have some extras being manufactured, but try not to lose that one.”

I give a single, “Thanks,” to everyone in the room as I carefully tuck it into my trouser pocket.

“I noticed you got the water back on,” Torn goes on, tone congratulatory. He takes a seat in the one next to mine. Jak moves to lean against the closest wall, still looking gloriously smug as he silently revels in his victory. “Good work. We’ll all be sleeping a bit better now -especially once we get your ass back home.”

I do not want to go back home, but I do not say that. I know I need to, and voicing my unhappiness accomplishes nothing.

“But some news first,” by the change in Torn’s voice, I know I will not like it. He will not like the news I have for him either. No, it will make him lose out on the better sleep he was just talking about.

Torn jerks his chin towards Jak, telling him to brief me.

The boy smirk gives way to seriousness in a flash, and he tells me quite frankly that the Baron is supplying the Metalheads with eco. He saw the guards handing off a few barrels to them while he was creeping around.

I sit up straighter in my chair. “What a coincidence, the news I have relates to that.”

Both men watch me closely, intensely as I tell them what I saw. Of course, I leave out certain bits -that a Metalhead escorted me to the scene I witnessed and how I almost choked to death on sand while being crushed by a different Metalhead. No, I keep all that to myself, but I share my theories. The conclusions I drew. And coupled with Jak’s information, it seems like a sure thing.

Torn most certainly looks troubled once I am finished with my tale. He sits back in his seat, his head fallen back to look up at the ceiling. “I think I know someone who can confirm it,” he says after a silent moment. “I’ll have to arrange a few things… Paarsa, you go see Ashelin as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

“She can look into it, too, and once we have more information, we can start plotting.” He turns his head to look at me with serious eyes. “…Keep your ear out for anything at home. The Right Hand would surely know about this. And as soon as you can, report back to me. I know it’s a little risky -especially if your dad noticed you missing- but I’ll need you.”

“As soon as I can,” I agree.

“And another thing…” The Second-in-Command clears his throat. “About earlier…”

I wave away what sounds like the beginnings of an apology.

“No, no, let me say it,” he says. “I’ll feel like garbage if you go off still mad at me.”

“I am not mad,” I say simply, truthfully. My anger ebbed away into a begrudging understanding -disgust at the world and the situations that drive us to the acts we must commit. “I still do not like it, but I am not mad at you. You have to make certain calls, and Jak was willing to answer. There is nothing more to it.”

“I appreciate your input,” he tells me, “I really do. If you didn’t call me out on my shit, I’d be another Baron. So if I’m being an asshole -if you think I’m wrong- I expect you to speak up. I might not like it when it happens, but it keeps me in line.”

“I know I need to focus on the bigger picture,” I admit after a moment. “It is hard to remember. But if that was all I did, I would lose sight of what is around me. It is important, too.”

“It is,” he agrees.

“You are good at what you do,” I say in earnest, rising to my feet. “I will see you soon.”

A smile crooks his lips as he returns the sentiment before instructing Jak to make sure I get home safely.

* * *

The zoomer waiting for us in the alley is a single-seater. Light blue. A model meant more for speed than comfort or safety. We will need to be fast. Stopping at the checkpoint is not an option. We have to bowl straight through it.

The pass in my pocket will allow us to, but it is up to Jak to shake any guards off our tail afterwards.

He hands me his map so I can plug in the location we are heading towards -not my home, but a safe spot of my own in the bougie part of town. From there, I will be able to learn if my father has been on the hunt for me or not, and I will plan accordingly.

“Though I was not initially pleased, I am glad your mission went over well,” I tell Jak as I hand his map back to him. “Do you have any plans on how you will drag the Baron’s attention away from the Slums?”

“A few,” Jak admits, adjusting his scarf to cover his nose, but by the crook of his lips before they disappear behind the red fabric, I know he has plenty -and that they are all dastardly indeed. “Simple things for tonight, though. Just cameras catching me speeding through the upper districts. Maybe some graffiti.”

I smile beneath the cover of my scarf, but tell him I would very much appreciate it if he were careful -not just for the Underground’s sake, but his own.

He snorts at me, all bravado. “Don’t worry about it. We got this.”

Daxter nods exuberantly at that. “Yeah, we got this. We’re heroes, Paarsa. Have a little faith.”

Jak shoots his companion a weary glance as I quietly sigh. I do have faith in them. He proved his abilities yet again by bringing me a security pass -completing his mission so well it had Torn smiling as if he had just watched the life fade from the Baron’s eyes. But such confidence can only do one so much good, and those who fly too close to the sun always get burned.

“I know,” I tell them, “but I am a worry-wart. Just ask Torn. I drive him crazy.”

“I can see that,” Jak says, mounting the zoomer. I hop on behind him, and Daxter wedges his way in the middle for extra safety. “…But it isn’t the worst quality to have. You could be a talkative ottsel, for instance.”

“I am charming, and you love me,” Daxter proclaims. “You wouldn’t know what to do without me and my colour commentary. Y-!”

The zoomer flares to life without warning, shooting forward and into the air, choking off whatever Daxter was about to say next. It cuts off my laughter as well, forcing me to hold onto Jak for dear life as we maneuver through the tight streets at breakneck speeds.

We do not go unnoticed -Jak almost runs over several Krimzon Guards, and they no doubt pass the news onto their buddies. The already alight streets are soon full of sirens, and I do not bother looking behind me to see all the guards on our tail.

I focus ahead of me -on the red wall rising up before us, and all the waiting Krimzon Guard zoomers.

Jak does not slow down; no, he somehow manages to go faster. Faster and faster, and when we are about to die in a head-on, fiery explosion, he’s suddenly taking the zoomer down dangerously close to the ground -so close its metal grates against the stone streets and sparks shoot up around us. It rattles my teeth. The screech rings in my head as I clench my eyes tightly shut, tighter when the zoomer bounces against the stone and we sway as Jak tries to orient us.

I bury my head in his back, feeling as Daxter clings to my chest. I think he is screaming.

The screeching and swaying stop; I feel the zoomer rise. I part my eyes only a fraction to see us in the air again, whole. I risk a glance over my shoulder, finding the Krimzon zoomer’s trying to turn and follow after, but there are so many of them in such a small space, and they keep knocking against one another as they try give chase.

I give a triumphant laugh before facing forward and shouting my praise to Jak.

“I told you we had this!” Daxter announces, his head popping up from in between us. I do not know how he manages to look both smug and absolutely petrified.

I can only smile beneath my scarf, holding tighter as Jak truly guns it.

I did not know we could go faster -that these zoomers could reach such speeds- but the world around me is a dark blur flashing with red lights. I cannot tell from which way the lights come. I can only feel as Jak takes us left and right. Up and down. The sirens seem to come from all around.

I have never been so terrified and exhilarated. The adrenaline has me grinning like a loon. Never mind my earlier thoughts about a ride on Amanat being more enjoyable than a ride on a zoomer -I just was not riding with the right person.

Another sudden turn, and we come to a halt; Jak kills the engines and lights on the zoomer and we disappear into the gloom of a side-alley.

About a dozen zoomers race pass the alley, and not one of them stops -nor turns around to scope it out. We watch their lights fade. Listen as the sirens go soft with distance.

“Smooth moves,” I murmur appreciatively.

“I know,” Jak says, tone infuriatingly haughty as he reignites the engine and takes us back into the streets.

Our speed is much reduced as we wind through streets of brick and metal lined with high-rises acting as homes and businesses. Citizens of a higher status litter the side-walks, talking and laughing. Living. Zoomers glide leisurely through the air, unhurried. Not a worry in the world.

Flashing lights beckon me to come eat, to dance. Play.

This sector is alive at this time of night, no mandated curfew to smother the revelry. There are, of course, guards strolling about, but their numbers are few. They do not needlessly hassle the pedestrians. No, they only make sure things stay orderly: grounding drunk-drivers and escorting the disorderly home.

This is Main Town, and in Main Town, the Krimzon Guard caters to the people. They serve us, they keep us safe. They would never raise a hand to hurt us, or dare to point a gun our way.

When I was a child, I trusted them. I thought they were cool.

I grew out of that mindset.

Daxter gives a low, appreciative whistle as he takes in our surroundings. “And here I thought this whole city was a shit-hole.” He pulls down his little, red scarf, revealing a most devilish smile. “We could have some fun here!”

“You… live here, Paarsa?” Jak asks of me, glancing over his shoulder.

I nod, ashamed of the fact. I wasn’t always. It was a mindset I grew into as I aged, as I began to see more of what lay beyond my gilded windows and learned more from Ashelin. She changed my life, she changed me. The way I saw things.

She showed me the truth.

We exit off the main road, proceeding down a quaint little side-street where I have Jak pull down an alley. We hide the zoomer in the shadows, amongst discarded boxes and garbage cans, then I lead them to a dumpster that I push out of the way to reveal a low hole in the wall of the building we stand behind.

I bid Jak and Daxter to follow me in, as well as pull the dumpster back into position.

We crawl forwards on our hands and knees, soon coming to a cramped, little compartment where I draw my legs to my chest to sit and wait.

“Uh… er… what are we doing?” Daxter asks from somewhere to my left. “I’ve been questioning it this entire time, but was waiting to see where it goes before I said anything. I don’t like where it went -I don’t understand where it went.”

“This is my safehouse,” I tell him. “Well, the little safehouse beneath my safehouse. Just be patient.”

Jak snorts. “That’s like asking him to be quiet. It’s not gonna happen.”

“I sure am starting to miss the days you were,” Daxter grouses. “If I’d known all I would get was sass from you, I would have preferred you stay a mute.”

I blink in surprise in the darkness. Jak? A mute? I cannot picture it.

“Really?” I query, throwing a curious glance in their direction that I know they cannot see.

“I could never get a word out of this guy,” Daxter says by way of answer. “Never, ever. It was like hanging around a stone wall.”

I give a curious hum, not bothering to ask what changed. Why he started speaking. I already have an idea.

Something moves overhead, drawing the conversation to a close. Though, I am certain it was already over -that Jak clapped a hand over Daxter’s mouth. And I see that I am correct as a circle of light opens in the ceiling, illuminating Jak with a hand over Daxter’s mouth and Daxter swatting at Jak’s face, but not quite able to reach.

“Manners, please,” I bid of them as I make my way to the short ladder leading into the light.

I climb up it, then out of a common laundry hamper, finding myself in the backroom of my tailor’s shop.

Haidee is there to greet me, the salt-and-pepper-haired woman pulling me into a tight hug.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she murmurs in my ear.

“Lovely to see you, too, Haidee,” I say with a smile, returning the hug in force before extricating myself from her death grip. “Do not be surprised, I brought a friend.”

Jak shimmies out of the hamper, looking absolutely befuddled. Daxter, faithfully clinging to his shoulder, wears the same expression.

“Haidee, this is Jak and Daxter,” I introduce them quickly, “Jak and Daxter, this is Haidee. She is a supporter of our cause.”

“Oh, new operatives, then…” Haidee’s nod of understanding suddenly becomes a look of surprise, and she leans forward, studying Jak’s face closer. “Oof. Oh boy. You’re the boy on all the wanted posters.”

“I am,” Jak admits plainly. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“He is being extra sassy this evening, Haidee,” I say, “please excuse him.”

She gives a small laugh, waving my apologies away as she shakes her head. “No, it’s not a problem. I’m used to having enemies of the city in my shop, but I think you must be the most famous -the most immediately recognizable.”

“He will be in and out of here over the next few days,” I warn her. “And I will drill him on proper procedures to ensure your safety.”

“I trust you, dear,” she says to me with a smile, and I know she does. It almost stings to know the faith she has placed in me, and how it could all come back to bite her in the ass one day.

Her smile then becomes a look of all seriousness. “A few of your father’s men stopped by earlier, asking if you had come through. I told them yes -that you picked up a fresh outfit before heading back out into the night.”

“Good, good.”

It is not all good -he is looking for me, and I am in trouble- but it is good she fed them the lie. Father will think I am out partying and being a huge embarrassment.

Which is exactly what I want.

“Speaking of a fresh outfit,” Haidee goes on, “we better get you cleaned up, yes? You look absolutely haggard.”

I have not had the chance to look at myself, but if Haidee says it is so, I believe it.

“You too, Jak,” she says to him. “And we can get your pet a bath, too.”

“Not a pet, lady,” Daxter grouses, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against Jak’s head.

She blinks in surprise. “Oh.” A simple, mind-blown oh.

She doesn’t say anything else, only wheels about to lead Jak and me through the backrooms of her shop and to a staircase that leads into the upper levels of the three-story building. Her building -her shop and home. The lowest floor dedicated to her craft, and the top two her living space.

It is a fine space; posh and decadent on the lower levels, and warm and homey on the upper. The furniture is all dark mahogany, the countertops of grey-swirled, white marble.

Everyone in Haven City who can afford Haidee, comes to Haidee. She’s the best with needle and thread. The best with stains. The best with quick fixes. Her fashions are highly sought after and ludicrously expensive. All the money the rich throw at her, she uses to do her part. She supplies those in the Slums with durable clothing, and helps finance the Underground’s fight.

She has been a mother figure to me all my life, and before my mother became… well… a vegetable, they were very best friends.

Haidee assures me she will have a stellar outfit at the ready for when I emerge from my shower, as well as any cosmetics I will need. I thank her kindly, shooting Jak a look that says, “Please be nice and humour her.”

He does not give any indication that he understands, and I can only watch his back with a frown as he disappears around the corner on Haidee’s heels.

I shut myself in the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and tossing them in the hamper in the corner. I do not even bother with the mirror. I know how rough I look, and I have no desire to see it.

Instead I step into the shower, not even bothering to adjust the temperature. I have no care for if the water is cold or hot, I only want a hard-pressure dousing.

Granules of sand and bits of seaweed gather on the shower floor as I rinse off, and it takes a good deal of scrubbing with a loofa before the oil-like blood from the slaughtered Metalhead finally rubs off. Then I properly soap-up my hair and myself three times or more before I am satisfied.

Emerging from the shower, I find Haidee had already swept through, laying out my ensemble for the evening, along with the cosmetics to match it best.

I towel-dry my shoulder sweeping hair before sitting down before a deep, rich mahogany vanity to make myself look… like the self I hate.

I see my hair, the ombre of light blue to white. It is the one thing about myself I do not utterly despise, for it is my mother’s hair -same shade and texture. She always wore hers two-toned, not cropping it short like most do. Those of the upper-class think two-toned hair is for the commoners. A symbol of poverty. Those who toil away in the sun have two-toned hair.

Mother did not care. She wore her loose, ombre curls with pride.

Everything else comes from father’s side. His sleepy, golden eyes and golden-brown skin. Grandmother’s proud nose and full lips. The slender build.

I wish I had mother’s complexion. Her quick-silver eyes.

But no. I am very clearly my father’s child, and I only look at the face in mirror for as long as it takes to apply the cosmetics that make my skin feel itchy.

I can tolerate the clothes Haidee picked out for me. The loosely-flowing, cobalt-blue trousers that come together tightly at the ankles -made dressier with the slits running the length of my thighs- billow nicely. The turquoise and gold embroidery glimmers softly when the threads catch the light in just the right way. They are good for a night out, a night of dancing and running. As is the silk, turquoise top. The material is nonrestrictive and light, gauzy. It ends just above the hem of the pants.

I could go without the matching shoes, capelet, and sparkling jewelry, but I cannot waltz about barefoot in Main Town. And the persona I affect when home would never be caught dead without proper accessories.

I pull back the top portion of my hair to keep it from my face, tying it off in a top-knot, and finally emerge from the bathroom into the empty, night-darkened hallway. I stop to listen for a moment, hearing laughter from downstairs -the kitchen, I would guess.

I breeze down the stairs, through the halls, finding Haidee, Jak, and Daxter in the homey kitchen. It smells of Haidee’s yakow curry, and a smile breaks across my face when I find a bowl prepared for me.

“Can’t send you home without a proper meal,” she coos with a smile, sweeping up to me to kiss me on both cheeks before excusing herself to bed.

I apologize for keeping her up so late, but thank her profusely. Her only response is to squeeze my hand.

I take a seat at the counter and immediately dig in, only now realizing how hungry I am -how I have not had a thing to eat all day. I have been too nervous, too busy.

“Hey Paarsa.”

My name is a purr off Daxter’s lips, and it has me looking up in utter confusion as the ottsel comes striding across the countertop to stand before me. He runs a hand back over his ears as if he’s smoothing back his hair.

“Whatddya say we go out on the town tonight?”

I attempt to cover my laughter with a napkin, acting as if I only dab away the delicious, aromatic curry I love so dearly. Jak’s exasperated sigh really pushes me to my limits.

“I was going to ask the two of you if you would like to join me tonight,” I say when I have collected myself well enough, “so yes.”

“I’m surprised you want us to after that,” Jak comments, smile small and wry. “Daxter’s pick-up attempts usually end in violence.”

Daxter glares daggers at him; I smile innocently as I spoon another bite of my meal into my mouth.

The ottsel shakes his head, returning his attention to me. “I had no idea what you looked like under your cloak and scarf,” he carries on. “Well, I had this mental image. You were bald for some reason.”

I snort at that. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Darling, baby, beautiful,” he is so confident as he says this, “it’s the exact opposite. I’m mind blown.”

“Flatterer,” I chastise him gently, scratching him underneath his chin. “I bet you say this to everyone.”

“You wound me,” he sighs dramatically, pulling away from my touch and looking away. He touches a hand to his chest in offense. “Wound me, I say.”

I cannot help but chuckle at his theatrics, and a soft smile clings to my lips as I rest my chin against my fist. “You will heal. You will learn to love again, and one day, some beauty will truly appreciate your charisma and cuddliness.”

He beams widely at me, and I swear I see his ego swelling.

I get down to business before he can attempt to sweet talk me anymore. “Now, I know we are relaxing for a moment, but I have to properly drill you on safehouse decorum.” I spin in my seat, making sure my gaze is both on Jak and Daxter, and I make sure they are looking at me as I run through the list. “One, keep the foot traffic to a minimum. It is fine for you to stay here, but if someone notices you coming and going from the alley way at all hours, it will attract attention to Haidee that she does not need or deserve.”

They nod.

“Two, if you think someone is tailing you, be ridiculously thorough in ensuring they are not. In fact, do not even head this way if you are even remotely suspicious you are being followed. And once you are here, always, always move the dumpster back into its original position.”

Another nod.

“Three, a specific tone goes off in the shop when someone enters into the passageway below. Haidee will let you in when it is safe to do so. Sometimes, you will have to wait. Never, ever try to force your way through.”

A third nod.

“Four, clean up what you mess up. Haidee is not your maid.” And with that rule, I point to their empty bowls, then to the sink.

Jak makes no fuss over it -he even grabs my empty bowl. Which I thank him kindly for doing.

I slip off of my chair as he turns the water on, grabbing a drying towel from a drawer to help him with the cleanup.

“Torn will get word to you here,” I tell him. “He may take a day or two, but he will not forget. And here.” I pull my security pass from my pocket, handing it off to Daxter who shoves it into Jak’s. “Hold on to that until you get your own. It can get you into any sector in the city.”

“What about into the Baron’s palace?” queries the green-golden-blonde, a soapy finger pointing out the window, to where the Baron’s home basically floats above the city. It is set upon a spire, and six towers connect to it, helping the top-heavy building stay balanced.

I never like going there. I am convinced it is going to topple over one day.

Shaking my head, I inform Jak, “Only those closest to the Baron have the proper security clearance. It is on a whole different system than the rest of the city. …My father lives there most of the time -him and the other council members. I am not permitted to go unless invited, and thankfully, I am seldom ever asked to visit.”

“Your father is on the council?”

I nod, drying the last of the dishes he passes my way. “Count Anouk Ilmari -the Right Hand. He is as nasty as the Baron.”

“I get the sense you two don’t get along,” Daxter casually drawls, looking my way curiously.

“I am his greatest shame,” I say in a matter of fact tone. “But loathe me as he might, I am well-liked by most in the aristocracy. Often times he is bid to bring me along to whatever event he is attending. He hates to disappoint more than he hates me.”

“Why does he hate you?”

Now there is a question. A good one -prying, but good. It has many answers.

“I propagate a certain image when I am here,” I say after a moment. “I do what most young nobles do -party and get addicted to strange drugs. Our parents pay people off to overlook our mistakes. Blame is shifted elsewhere. He cannot do that with me, because I am so loud about it. Because I shove it in his face. I _live _to make him go pale or red-faced, and he cannot be rid of me, because others so love my antics. They say it is not a party unless I am there, and when I am there, he lives in dread of the moment I embarrass him. Sully his name.”

It could also be the fact he wanted... he wanted something I am not, and after I was born, my mother could not have another child. My mother could not do anything. I was a great trauma to her. Now, she does not speak or move unless prompted, guided. She has to be bathed and dressed and fed.

“I can’t picture that,” Daxter announces. “You’re so proper and elegant.”

I smile charmingly at him, winking for good measure. “I am whatever I need to be.”

* * *

Jak and I leave from Haidee’s separately, but we both have the same end destination: a particularly busy nightclub known as Osiris.

But I make sure I am spotted just about everywhere before I make my appearance in the dancehall, gathering an entourage of the young and beautiful and rich. I recognize many of their faces, for I have spent many a night with them jumping from club to club, pretending to be a person I absolutely despise. Pretending I like them -that they do not disgust me. Pretending to enjoy myself. Pretending to get drunk. High.

A scene is made when I step into the strobe-lit club, the music falling in volume as the dee-jay announces, “Ohhhh, it’s a party now! Look who just walked in! Our favourite celebrity, trouble-maker, and sweet-talker Paarsa Ilmari!”

There are cheers and flashes, and a flood of revelers is upon me as I blow a kiss at the dee-jay and tell him I missed him so. He plays what he thinks is my favourite song -a heady, pulsating beat those in the room immediately begin to dance to. I flirt and kiss and charm as I wind my way through the room, taking bottles and drinks from the hands of others and pretending to knock them back. I dance and laugh.

At one point, I very publicly make-out with the dee-jay.

Because I know it will get attention. That it will spread. No doubt someone has already alerted my father and his men to my whereabouts and what I am doing.

Dragging his name through the muck. Making a spectacle of myself.

It becomes a blur. I am here. There. Everywhere. All smiles. All laughter. I lose a shoe after smacking someone across the face with it. I ditch my capelet. I throw my golden, expensive-ass jewelry into the crowd.

I slowly lose my sanity.

And then I find myself at the bar, pouring a glass of water the barkeep gave to me onto the floor. I can tell by the way he looks at me he wants me gone, but I never get booted out of clubs. I am a major draw, people flock to wherever I am spotted on the off chance they get to see me. The owners let me get away with whatever, knowing my father will pay any debts I incur and that they will make a killing.

My eyes are locked with the barkeep’s -him glaring me to hell as I watch him with a demure smile- when a glass is pushed into my chest. I break the intense stare down to see it is Jak shoving the glass my way.

“Water.” I can _just_ hear his voice above the music. “I really think you need to drink this water.”

I down it as if it is a shot, then pull him close. “I am not drunk, but thanks.”

Then I pull away, smiling brightly at him. “You sure are cute, stranger. What’s your name?”

He blinks at me, confused. I just smile at him, hoping he gets it.

“Oh… uh, Jak,” he finally says.

“You got any friends with you, Jak?” I ask, sidling up closer to him.

He gets what I mean -clearly, I am asking for the whereabouts of a certain ottsel who is missing from his shoulder- and he points across the room to where Daxter dances on a tabletop. He’s drawn a crowd of onlookers who “ooh” and “ahh” at him.

The smile on his face lets me know he is having the time of his life.

“Hm… Well, why don’t you grab him,” I boop him on the nose, and I am certain he hates it as much as I do, “and the two of you meet me in the V.I.P section?”

I think he understands truly what I am trying to do here: make it seem as if I am pouncing on a stranger for any and all onlookers, because there are onlookers. There are those watching me as I smile at the green-golden-blonde as if he is my dinner, and he finally gives them what I need them to see when his smile becomes just a lascivious as my own. As his hand meets my waist to pull me closer to him so he can whisper in my ear, “We’ll be right there.”

Though I loathe to do it, I nibble on his ear before I pull away, then toss a flirtatious wink over my shoulder as I head up to the little, private area of the club reserved just for me.

The walls are thin, and the door providing any privacy is not a door at all, but multi-coloured, flowing curtains that are nearly sheer. It is dimly lit, and the grand, rounded couch with its arms stretched around a polished, black table is piled high with silks and pillows.

There is also a camera in the corner, and I throw a smile and a wink at it before I cover its lens with my underthings.

I fall back on the posh, comfy couch, slipping off my lone shoe and settling down for a moment of respite. I cannot truly unwind, not when the music shakes the walls and fills my head.

My eyes slightly parted, I watch the curtains part around Jak as he slips into the “room”. He sits down across from me, and Daxter immediately jumps from his shoulder to belly flop into the mounds of pillows and silks.

“My apologies for my behaviour,” I murmur around a yawn. “I have to act like that, else it would be suspicious.”

Jak waves my apology away as he settles back into the embrace of the plush couch. He looks as tired as I feel.

We have both had a long day.

“Thank you for coming,” I say after a moment. “You did not have to, but I am glad you did.”

“I was curious to see if you really would act in the way you described,” Jak explains. “It’s… jarring, I guess. I didn’t think you were being serious.”

“You should have seen how red Jak went when we walked in and saw you dancing on the stage with the other dancers!” Daxter chimes in, lifting his furry head from the pillows. I scratch him behind the ears, watching his left foot kick happily. “I whistled for you. It was great.”

“Thank you. I aim to please.” I smile lazily at the boys, at the way Jak glares at Daxter. “But I am ready for this to be over with. I almost wish my father’s goons would show up already.”

“So, they’re going to come in here and drag you home?” Daxter queries.

I nod.

“And then you’re grounded for what? Like a week?” Jak guesses.

“Basically.” I try to stifle a yawn, but my need is too mighty. “Usually never more than a week. He has other things to worry about. Places to be. People to see. …I know I have already said this, but you two be careful. I really do not want to come out of solitary and learn my new friends are in lock-up or worse.”

“Don’t worry you’re pretty little head,” Daxter says, catching my yawn and flopping back down on the couch. This time with his head on my lap. I pet his head gently. “We’ll be fine, doll face.”

It is hard to keep in mind he was a human once. That he is a fully sentient critter, who has proven himself to be ever so slightly perverted. I do not mind -he is harmless, and he is just too damn fluffy and cute not to pet. Especially after the bath he had tonight -it really made a difference to his coat’s softness and shine.

Jak does not look so rough and tumble either. No dirt smudges on his face or blood on his clothes. In fact, he ditched all of his old clothes, opting for one of Haidee’s more durable outfits. Built to be sturdy, but maneuverable. The colours neutral so he blends in better. He kept the red scarf I gave him. Daxter and he both did.

“I know.” And I smile up at Jak. “If you cannot fight your way out, you most certainly can drive your way out.”

He smirks, setting his head back and closing his eyes.

We lapse into silence, not true silence -not with the way the beat of the music surrounds us like a heartbeat. But Daxter dozes off as I give him proper loving, and I try to focus on my contentment in this moment as I watch his feet kick a little in his dreams. Jak dozes as well, and I think this might be the first time I have seen him looking… peaceful. No anger. No smirk. No hard-set of the face. He looks his age now. Softer.

I like these two. They are fun. Made of tough stuff. I think we could become proper friends if given the chance. Most of us in the Underground are pretty close. Life-threatening situations have a way of bringing people together, and I have been through plenty with my comrades. I have already had two or three narrow escapes with Jak and Daxter.

I already care about them. Foolish of me, I know. I come to care too quickly -a flaw and a strength- but I cannot help it. If someone can make me smile, laugh -if they show me bravery, a willingness to protect- I admire them. I grow protective and coddling.

“The… er… the way Torn made it sound…”

I raise my sleepy eyes from Daxter’s goofy, little, people hands, brows furrowed at the tone of voice Jak uses. There is an awkwardness to it, like he does not know how to ask what he is wanting to ask -or if he should. Then there is worry. Uncertainty. And even though his face and eyes are turned towards the ceiling, I can see his brows are pinched.

“He made it sound like it would be worse than a grounding when your dad got his hands on you.”

“Oh.”

I try not to look any certain way as my eyes fall to my hands, and for a moment, I see them bandaged. Stinted. Shaking. But I blink, and there are not but thin, white scars.

“I can handle anything he does.”

I am not scared of my father. I am not scared of pain. Any pain he inflicts lasts only for a few beats of the heart, and he never does anything that might permanently mar me. If he does something particularly severe, I am treated right away. I just have to endure it, and I have done so a dozen times over. I can do it once more.

One day, I will not have to anymore, and I will not extend to him the same small mercies.

“Why deal with it? Why come back here if you hate it so much?”

Jak looks to me with a burning curiosity. The seriousness that makes him look so much older.

“I have exactly three reasons,” I tell him. “One, for information I can take back to the Underground. Two, a friend of mine cannot always get her messages and information along to Torn, often times she needs me to carry them. Three… my mother…”

I cannot help but shift uncomfortably at bringing her up. I do not like to talk about her -what happened to her. There is too much guilt in me, too much pain in thinking about what I did to her. What her life has become.

I am brought up from the dark hole I start to burrow into by a sudden slam from below, followed by demanding shouts. Calls for me.

I gingerly scoop up Daxter, rising to my feet before placing him back down on the couch so he can snooze a while longer.

“Rest here if you want -they do not close for another hour or so more,” I say to Jak, fixing a smile to my lips. “I will see you both soon.”

Jak looks conflicted -his eyes darker, and his flexing fingers’ nails seem to sharpen.

I think he must consider me a friend, and it both warms and breaks my heart to see him getting worked up over me.

“You tell me not to worry about you,” I say, “and now I tell you not to worry about me.” Then I repeat to him, giving him a disgustingly confident smirk like those he has flashed at me, “I will see you soon.”

“See you soon,” he echoes back, his eyes lightening a few shades, returning to their clear, sky-blue.

I exit the private section without another moment’s hesitation, heading down the stairs with a yawn and stretch. Two of my father’s men stand at the landing, as if they were just about to make their way up.

I flash one of my better grins at them. “Oh, hey there, you two. I know I have asked the both of you this a dozen times, but would you perhaps like to join the fun instead of carting me back to daddy dearest? Drinks are on me, and my lips are sealed.”

They do not respond to me, they never do. No, they meet me halfway, each grabbing me by an arm to keep me from bolting.

I tut disapprovingly at the both of them, but allow myself to be carted away.


	6. Gilded Cage

When in Main Town, I stay at the Ilmari Building -a high-rise my father owns. It has fifteen floors, and is the second highest structure in the city -second to the Baron’s palace. I have no idea what goes on, on half of the floors -I know some are storage. Others are office space. The top three floors comprise our home -I have a floor, father has a floor, and mother has a floor.

Mine is the lowest, having more of a loft vibe. The only doors existing are those leading into my ludicrously large closet and the spacious bathroom. I like how open it is, how everything runs together. I keep the blinds and curtains on the numerous windows open, allowing in the sun and sky. Most of the time, I leave the windows open, but there is a particular cleaning lady who comes through and shuts them all. I do not think she likes me.

Father’s floor is sterile and clean, simple -but expensive- in its furnishings. Everything is compartmentalized. Everything has its place. The few times I have had to go to his floor, I felt as if I were suffocating. Too many walls. The colours neutral and dull, and the air is so stale. Father is seldom ever home, barely here to open the windows to air it out. Cleaners keep it from getting dusty, but it truly feels more like a tomb than a living space.

Mother’s is the top-most floor, and it is kept as bright and open as my own. Colourful. She was a true artist before me, and almost every wall on her floor bears a mural of her creation. She painted scenes straight out of storybooks: castles floating through the skies, dragons and their hordes, water-nymphs, and so much more. Her floor also has a spacious terrace where a tidy, little garden full of brightly coloured zinnias, dahlias, asters, and ammi visnaga bloom.

My mother used to keep the garden, and now my father keeps it -more accurately, the gardener- so she has something to look at when she is bid to move into the sun for a few hours every day.

It is our gilded cage.

Father does not greet me upon arrival. He never does; no, I am taken down into the basement where a small portion of it had been turned into a drunk tank. The brutes holding me by my arms toss me in without a word, slamming and locking the door closed behind me.

I make a show of wanting out, of banging on the door and trying to bribe the guards. Then I settle down in the bare, emptiness of the room. There is no chair. No metal benches or bed. Just me and the off-white walls.

I do not mind being in here for the moment. It is quiet, and I am dead tired. I spread out on the floor, falling asleep with ease.

Dreams do not await me; no, my sleep is that of the dead. Pure, floating blackness. Emptiness. In my opinion, one could not ask for better sleep, and if I could, I would never wake.

But I do eventually, and the state I find myself in is wretched. I feel beaten and battered, as if my body is a giant ache within itself. I am groggy, brain clouded. The glaring light above brings on an intense headache, stinging at my eyes.

I close my eyes again, not bothering to move. Yesterday’s abuse has finally caught up to me, and I will not dare exacerbate my condition. If father’s men seek to move me, they will have to carry me. I will go floppy, dead-weight on them should they try to haul me to my feet.

If they come for me.

I might be left to rot for a day or two. They will not feed me, but they will toss in a bucket for me to use… My eyes open, drifting to the left.

The bucket is already here, and it is all the confirmation I need that I will be here for a while.

Sleep takes me on and off. I am not sure for how long. There is no way to tell the time in the tank, no way to see if it is day or night, but the next time I wake -still all achy- I cannot avoid the pressing issue of my bladder.

I am stiff as a robot in all my movements, wincing and muffling whimpers as I make use of the bucket. After which, I lay down as quick as I can, breathing deeply as I try to still my quivering muscles.

I sleep again.

It is restless. On again. Off again.

The next time I rouse, I am desperately thirsty. My throat is like sandpaper. My mouth tastes like garbage. The last time I had a drink was that glass of water Jak gave me, and I do not know how long ago that was. A day? Two? Illusory time passes so strangely in this room.

I pull myself upright, still miserably achy, but not every movement is a twinge of agony. It is only mildly uncomfortable. Sleeping on the floor is not making it any better. So, I put my back to the wall, looking up and all around. There is no food. No water. My bucket is still there.

I try to count the seconds, but have no way to keep track of the minutes they amount to. The hours. I pick at my nails. My dry lips.

I try to sleep again, but it is no use. My body has all it requires. My mind is alive, jittery with the solitude.

And I am so, _damn_ thirsty.

It becomes all I can think about, and the next time I have to use the damned bucket, anything that comes out of me is a horrendous shade.

My headache returns, bringing with it dizziness and confusion. I have to lay down again. Breathe deeply. Try not to think.

I do not think father has ever left me in here for this long before. This stint has had to have been at least three days. Does he want me to die of dehydration in this cell? Was my last outing somehow the last straw? I did not do anything particularly horrendous while I was out -I have done worse than make out with a dee-jay and disappear into a booth with a stranger.

I have been half-nude in public. I have driven numerous zoomers into the waterways -none of them mine. Committed multiple acts of breaking-and-entering. Arson. Shop lifting. Trespassing. I strip-teased a Krimzon Guard while playing around in a public fountain.

I barely did anything last night -not enough to warrant this.

The urge to cry strikes me, but I do not have the fluid for it.

* * *

I have come to terms with my death when the door to the tank opens. Panic and fear turned into resignation hours ago -a numbness and exhaustion. I barely raise my head to acknowledge the change. I do not care anymore. 

There are hands on me, rough and cruel. They drag me out of the tank, through the basement, and up the stairs. All I see is the grey-tiled floor, and all I hear is the dragging hiss of my body along it. I close my eyes, feeling so outside myself.

Suddenly, I am flung forward, and my eyes fly open as I hit the bitingly cold floor, landing hard on my left shoulder. A shock of pain runs through me, returning some of my life. The missing sensation. I give a shuddering gasp when ice-cold water comes streaming down on me from above.

My body gets over the shock in seconds, my baser instincts kicking in. Water. Ice-cold water. It is like mana from the gods, and I open my mouth wide trying to down all that I can. I go overboard, vomiting up a great deal of it. I regain enough sense to pace myself. A sip here. A sip there. I focus on other things: stripping out of my sopping clothes and scrubbing my face and hair. I make the water as hot as I can stand it, then sit down on the floor to let it warm me. Soothe my aches.

Eventually, I drag myself from the shower and towel off. Slip into a fluffy robe.

As I squeeze the water from the ends of my hair, I find my face in the mirror. It is paler than I am comfortable with. Golden eyes sunken and sullen. Tired.

I try to fix a smile to the face, try to brighten it, but the grin is miserably out of place. I cannot stand the sight of it, the sight of me.

Turning from my reflection, I set my mind upon other matters -like the gnawing hunger in my stomach. Perhaps the guards or maids will have brought food up for me. It is always something small and bland after a stint in the drunk tank. It matters not. I will find it heavenly. I just need something to fill my stomach.

I exit the bathroom, expecting to find an empty room and a tray of porridge, but my father awaits.

Anouk Ilmari is a stern man -rigid in every definition of the word. I do not know what mother ever saw in him -maybe she thought him handsome. Maybe he was handsome once -before scowling all the time drew deep lines in his face. Made him look as if he always smells something foul.

My mother would not have married him for money. She had her own, and was different amongst those of the aristocracy. Haidee told me she was kind and loving and generous. Adventurous. She did not bother with parties. Playing the political game.

Someone like her would not have married someone like Anouk, and I can only think of one thing that could have taken the joy from his life. Made him into someone so horrendous.

Me. What I did to mother.

I smile brightly at the man, clearing my throat once or twice before I chirp out a, “Hello father. Lovely to see you.”

I barely see him move, but I feel the blow: the back of his hand harshly to my face, so forceful my head snaps to the side and I taste blood in my mouth.

My knees wobble, wanting to give, but I make myself stay upright. I hold my stinging cheek, turning back to him with the same smile that got me slapped.

“Good day to you, too.” I swallow the blood in my mouth. “What brings you home?”

“You of course,” he snarls, advancing on me once more to grab a fistful of my hair.

My scalp stings and burns -as do my eyes do with the tears starting to gather.

Anouk whips me around, releasing my hair. I go stumbling into the embrace of a blue-velvet loveseat. It feels like heaven -a cloud. All I want is to sink into it and never rise, but I stay alert. Keep my eyes focused on Anouk, and my mind on the stinging of my cheek and scalp. 

“A week ago, the Baron himself requested your presence at an event, _and you were not here._ Do you know how embarrassing that is? All the jabs I had to listen to about not being able to keep my home in order, my family in order? I cannot manage one child, so how am I to manage an entire city?” His hands clench into fists at his sides. “Where were you?”

“Let me see…” I maintain a cool, aloof air -even though I worry those fists will come for my face. “A week ago… Hm…” I tap at my chin, then snap my fingers. “Oh yes! I remember now, there was a party in the theater district. A truly raucous affair, father. Lights and singing and dancing, and there was this one man, father. He gave me this candy -and it was very good candy. I had several pieces. It made the world glow.”

Anouk’s face is a most unhealthy shade of red.

“It gets fuzzy after that. One party bleeds into another...” I laugh. “Really good candy, father. I do not think I started coming down until I got to Osiris… What night was that, father?”

“It was three nights ago.” His voice is tight with rage.

My confidence almost wavers; my smile almost falls. I felt as if it were so, but hearing it… Three whole nights without food, water, washing, or a proper toilet. I could have died. He was going to let me die in there.

“I should throw you back in the tank,” he growls, “leave you to rot. Then I would not have to put up with your stupidity. I would be free from the constant shame you bring me -our family name. Do you know what an embarrassment you are? Do you realize how abhorrent you are? Nasty, philandering whore. Your mother would hate you if she knew you. You would break her all over again.”

Now that stings worse than the blow, the hair pulling. Has me feeling brittle and cold all over.

But my smile does not falter for a second. “Then it is a good thing she has the self-awareness of a carrot.”

Anouk moves, and I am certain it is to beat me, but he stops himself. The only movement he makes is the spastic clenching and unclenching of his fists. A muscle feathers in his tense jaw as he tells me, “I would beat you black and blue -I would _kill _you- if Count Veger did not want you at his blasted dinner party this evening.”

“Oh, I do love a good dinner party,” I say, smiling brighter as I bound to my feet.

My legs shake like crazy.

“I already have the perfect idea of what to wear.” I sweep to my closet, leaving the red-faced man behind me. “We should colour-coordinate, father. I have a gorgeous, pale-rose dress that would look nice alongside one of you dour, grey thawbs. You could pair it with a sash that matches-.”

A door slams behind me, so hard it shakes the room -the crystalline chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I look over my shoulder to see the man I hate so fiercely has left.

I watch the closed door for a moment, waiting to see if he comes back in.

When he does not, I walk into my closet, close the doors, bury my face in one of the many hanging dresses, and scream.

* * *

A good scream can do wonders to improve one’s mood.

In fact, I feel almost like a well-adjusted person when I finally emerge from my room dressed in a soft-pink, metallic-lace dress that comes to just above my knees. I paired it with grey heels that go along with my father’s wardrobe -just because I know it will get under his skin- and several pieces of simple, but elegant, silver jewelry. My hair is half-swept up in a bun, and the rest softly curls around my face. A bit of foundation, kohl, rouge, and lipstick covers up and distracts from the darkening bruise on my face.

Father and I do not speak on the way to Count Veger’s building. No, I pretend to check my makeup and hair the entire ride there -and it is a mercifully short ride. The Count lives but a few streets over in a building almost identical to our own. The only true difference I can note is how Veger’s only has ten-stories to our fifteen.

Our chauffeur lets us out in front of the building before pressing on to look for a parking spot -the street is absolutely packed with fancy, gleaming zoomers- and father and I mix in with the other aristocrats heading into Veger’s.

This is when I start working my magic, cuddling up to the other rich and powerful with smiles and charm. I have the group I walk with roaring with laughter by the time we exit the elevator into Veger’s penthouse -where the Count awaits us.

He is a drawn, reserved man -not nearly as severe as my father, but there are similarities. It is in the way he watches the world. Sneers at others. Father is the same. The only difference between them is father still has his hair, and his skin is a great deal darker. One could describe Veger as pasty. Pasty and weak and wormy.

But he loves me, picking me out of the crowd to welcome me with a delighted crow before he kisses my hand.

A shudder creeps up my spine, but I suppress it. Smile at him as if I am glad to see him, and love to be fawned over in such a way.

The night progresses, and I become a whirlwind. A joke here. A suggestive comment and wink here. I take the drinks offered to me, pretending to sip at them and often times pouring them into a potted plant when no one is looking.

It is almost dinner time when I spot the Count hosting in a foul mood, and I cozy on up to him, hoping I might be able to get him to tell me what is wrong -and for the information to be pertinent and not something silly.

“The Baron sent Ashelin in his stead,” Count Veger says, sniffing in offense.

“It is still a wonderful party, Veger, even with the Baron’s absence,” I coddle, though, I am disappointed he is upset over such a trivial matter. I wanted real information. Real strife. All I get is this pointless, inane drivel. “Most certainly more enjoyable than Count Reiner’s tepid soiree last month.”

He flashes me a smile. “Agreed.”

After a bit more idle chatter and ego stoking, I break away from the Count, intent on finding Ashelin. I had no idea she would be here -well, I did not know I would be here until a few hours ago, but still. She is my saving grace at these functions.

When we were younger, we were expected to sit pretty in the corner. Be seen and not heard. Ashelin was better at it than me. I liked to mingle, to be seen and heard. She was stern and quiet, but opinionated as hell. I always saw her biting her tongue. Heard her angry mumbles under her breath. I never commented on her disposition -never really bothered to speak with her. We did not hate each other -there simply was no point for us to speak to one another.

For a few years, Ashelin Praxis disappeared from the party scene. I forgot about her.

Then one day, when I was fifteen and already a train wreck of a human being, she swept back into the picture. She was tall and slim and absolutely, devastatingly pretty. I was immensely jealous, but strangely smitten. I was confused.

A few of the Counts had been liquoring me up that night, and back then I used to eagerly imbibe. I was happy to be thought of as adult enough, and their attention... I remember even now how it made me feel. I thought I was loved. I was noticed. Their compliments and gazes made me feel warm when life at home was so cold and empty.

I was a mess.

But Ashelin Praxis pulled me away from the lecherous old men, and she sobered me up. Kept me occupied for the night so I would not be taken advantage of.

She had gone off and joined the Krimzon Guard, and her absence was due to her training. She had been on missions outside the wall. Learned how to fight -be more than a pretty thing to look at. She told me so many amazing stories, and then she asked me what I had been up to.

Nothing. I was doing nothing important. I was fifteen and already had a better booze tolerance than some adult men. All I did was sneak out to party, piss off my father, and sleep.

I was ashamed, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to be more than what I was. I wanted to be different.

Ashelin took me under her wing, and my father was glad to let me go off on missions with her. He thought it might change my attitude, but Ashelin said I should keep my attitude. I should carry on in the same way as always, and bitch and moan about any trips I took with her. So I did.

She taught me of the struggles I did not realize were going on around me. Showed me suffering, and I could not stand it. I could not believe how people were living in Haven City -I could not call it living. I wanted to change things. I wanted to help.

When I expressed that to her, she turned me to the Underground.

The rest is history.

I find Ashelin Praxis standing against a far wall, slim -but toned- figure draped in crimson, and auburn hair swept up in a simple pony-tail. She holds a fluted wine glass, but does not drink from it. She looks bored to tears, but her green eyes light up when she sees me walking her way.

Immediately, she sweeps me away, taking me to the bathroom with her. Saying I must check the back of her dress, she thinks there might be a tear.

A believable excuse just in case anyone is listening.

Once we are locked safely in a second-floor bathroom of marble countertops and mahogany, we let our false faces slip away. We exchange hugs and “I missed you’s.” She comments on the bruise on my cheek, and I wave it away as nothing. Even when she presses the subject, I maintain my relaxed demeanor before switching the subject onto more important matters.

I tell her all that has happened, all that the Underground has learned and the hypotheses concocted.

“Oh, I heard about the incident at the munitions factory,” she comments, sitting back on a countertop. “Father was up in arms about it -that’s why he isn’t here tonight. He’s trying to find out who did it. He doesn’t think it was the Underground behind it, though. It’s some green-blonde he’s after, and he thinks he works under Krew.”

I make a face at the slovenly crime boss’ name, but I do not question it. In fact, it makes perfect sense. Torn said he was looking for a source to confirm our information, as well as way to keep attention off of us. A way to make it seem like Jak was working independently. He must have sent Jak to Krew, and Krew is always looking for new hands. Those who will do whatever and keep questions to a minimum.

A good plan.

“A new recruit,” I tell her. “He has proven himself valuable as so far.”

Now Ashelin makes a face. “Ugh, I hate having to deal with newbies -I don’t care how proficient they think they are, they are a pain. They get a big head about everything. Think they’re the saviours of the world.”

I give a short laugh. “A painfully correct observation.”

“And Torn barely vets them out anymore,” she gripes. “I feel like he’s just pulling in any hopeful off the street without really testing their mettle…” Her tone shifts into something softer. “Speaking of Torn, how is he?””

“Perfectly well,” I assure, smiling knowingly at her. “Eagerly awaiting a response to a certain letter.”

Ashelin jumps slightly as if remembering something. She pulls a folded slip of paper from the front of her dress and hands it to me. It is addressed to Torn, his name written in her neat, curling scrawl. I tuck it away.

“You wouldn’t guess it, but he’s such a sweet talker,” she muses, smiling fondly. “Er… don’t open that one. I was sweet talking, too -oh, and let him know I might be MIA for a few days. Dad is sending me out of the city on a search and recover. I don’t have any more information other than that.”

“I will let him know.” My smile goes teasing. “And pass on whatever filthy musings you have concocted.”

She matches my grin. “What I wrote in that later is _nothing, _Paarsa. I’ve said far dirtier things to you.”

I go to pull her note from my underthings. “Then surely you would not mind if I read this.”

Ashelin waves her hand at me. “No, no, no! You know what? Let’s get to dinner, yeah?” She drops from the countertop, taking my hands in her own to pull me from the restroom -as well as keep me from her letter. “I’m sure all the Counts miss their darling, little butterfly.”

I make a sour face. “Ugh, they can all choke.”

My friend’s laughter is soft and warm, her smile one of complete agreement. “I wish.”


	7. Withered Away

Father does not accompany me home. No, he returns to the palace, and has one of his guards ensure I make it home and stay home. Unnecessary, I have no plans to go out. No desire to sneak away. Not yet anyway. I have things to do.

First, is to shower. To clean the makeup off my face and the phantom touches of old perverts off my skin. I have a glass or two of water. Eat again even though I just had dinner (I feel so empty after three days in the tank). I walk around the house a bit, stretching my legs as well as to check out where the guards are stationed. Their patrols will be merciless for a day or two, but I will find a way out.

I always do.

Not tonight, though. I just want to sleep again.

It is not a restful sleep. No nightmares or anything like that, I just find myself waking up over and over again. Dozing, but never sleeping. And in those moments between wakefulness and unconsciousness, I find myself in the cell. The walls closing in. Quiet. Lonely.

I give up on sleep, spending the rest of the night and the wee hours of the morning in mother’s garden. It has just been replanted, but is still lush. The little sprouts shooting from the earth promise new life, and the air smells of rich soil. It is soothing.

I stay in the garden even once the sun has risen.

Behind me, I hear the doors to the house opening wide. A familiar voice saying, “It is a fine morning isn’t it, Chiori? Sunny and brisk, just how you like it.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I see my mother’s nurse -Keilah- guiding the lady of the house out onto the patio. The kindly woman jumps when she sees me, no doubt surprised by my presence, but she covers quickly with a smile.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were home, Paarsa!”

“Just got back,” I say, returning the smile.

Keilah says something to me -I miss it, so intent am I on mother.

Her name is Chiori Ito. She did not take father’s last name -I would not have either if I had a choice in the matter- and I respect her for that. She is fair-skinned. Silver-eyed. Beautiful, but… every time I see her, it is as if a bit more of her has withered away. As if she grows dimmer and dimmer. Smaller and smaller.

Of course, she has always existed to me as the woman she is now. Silent and staring. A statue, but her face is soft and kind. I know she was kind. I have all these stories of her, and in that way, I have grown up with her. She has always been right there. So close, yet distant.

But it is hard reconciling the version of her I hold in my head to the version that exists in the real world.

The vibrant, strong woman who can light a room with her smile is actually rail-thin and silent. The blue of her two-toned hair growing lighter. She never smiles. She never moves. She stares straight ahead, impassive.

“But how about some breakfast tea?” Keilah offers, her words finally registering with me. I blink a few times as I snap out of my thoughts. “It has been a while since we’ve had you around. I think your mother misses you when you are gone.”

Such words make my eyes go watery. “I would love to have breakfast tea with you two,” I say softly, willing my smile brighter as Keilah bids my mother to sit in the white, wicker chaise beside mine.

“I’ll be back in two shakes then,” Keilah chirps.

I thank her softly as she returns to the house, and only when I hear the door shut do I turn towards my mother and take her hand into my own.

I do not do this often. Not hold her hand -though, if I must be honest, I seldom have the chance to do it.

My eyes close, and I think about the garden around us. I picture it in full bloom, fragrant. The sun above, its rays coming through the brush in buttery beams of warmth. I imagine us sitting here together. She is not a statue, but full of life. She chats and laughs with me. She holds my hand, squeezes it.

Mother’s fingers stir in my hand. I look to see white light creeping from me and into her. In her eyes, there is a spark. Something they had not held before. It is but a glint, and I cannot keep this up forever.

“Mother,” I say urgently, “I love you. I want to tell you that first and foremost -just in case I cannot get to the rest.”

She blinks, her motions jerky and stiff as she turns her head to look at me. A spark of recognition goes off, and she smiles. It is so faint, but it fills me with warmth. With hope.

“L…Love…” Her voice is a croaking whisper, but it is music to my ears. “So much…”

She squeezes my hand softly, with all the force I believe she can muster.

“Can you help me, mother?” I ask of her.

Her head does a quick jerk to indicate yes.

“Has father said anything to you?”

Mother is the perfect confidant: catatonic and motionless unless holding my hand. And father is a stressed-out man. I learned almost a year and a half ago that he comes home and talks her head off, talks and talks until he feels better. Less guilty.

I discovered it not long after I realized I had eco-channeling abilities -saw that I could heal things. My first instinct was to go to mother and see if I could fix what I had broken.

I could not. Obviously not. I had just discovered I had some form of power, and I did not know how to use it -and it was -is- precious little at my disposal. I managed to inspire a little life, though, and she started to tell me things in her hoarse whisper of a voice. Of palace intrigue. Experimental weapons. Failed projects.

She wants me to bring the Baron -Anouk- down.

“D….ark War…rior,” she murmurs. “Fffff…ail. Mmmm…Metal K-. Leader… Bad deal. A-. And y-you. T…ired. C…areful. C-Careful, Paarsa.”

“I will be,” I assure her.

“D…Dangerous g…ame.”

I tilt my head in acknowledgement, knowing it full well. “It is absolutely deadly.”

* * *

There are two things I want: one, to reform Haven City -bring down the Baron- and two, to heal my mother. Both of them are of equal importance to me, and I am convinced I will one day be able to do both. I am with the Underground. We make strides every day towards dethroning the Baron. My eco-channeling abilities improve bit by bit, and with the Oracle’s words in mind, I know I can grow them further.

I would save them all, and I would gladly burn. Brighter and brighter.

It was right about me in that regard.

I think about its warning/prophecy almost constantly over the next few days as I go slowly insane in my penthouse. I tell mother about the interaction, and even with my healing touch, she is still speechless. Until she manages an encouragement: learn, she tells me. Burn.

I plan to. I will.

I…

I think I might need to run away. Not like I usually do -not just for a few days. I believe it is time for me disappear and not come back until things have changed -until I can heal mother. I hate to leave her, but she will be fine with Keilah, and I am certain she will understand if I tell her my reasoning.

I cannot grow here -I cannot make any progress under father’s roof. I have to hunt down Metalheads and claim their gems.

I also need to feed Amanat. I told it that it might be a while before it saw me again. It churred what sounded like an understanding, but it has been at least a week since I have seen it. I cannot help but feel as if I am being a bad friend.

The decision should be easy. I should want to leave this place and never look back, but on both nights I try it, father comes home. Luckily, it is before I start to leave, but it seems an omen to me. The universe saying not to try it. Not to dare. It makes me reluctant, fearful.

I discuss it with mother, and she flat out tells me to leave.

I make my move in the dead of night, packing up all my valuables -including the Metalhead gem I keep stowed under my bed.

The night air is brisk, windy. A ten-foot gap separates me from the closest high-rise -as does a bit of a fall. I stand at the edge of my balcony, outside of its guarding rails with my bared feet almost hanging over the edge.

This is a jump I have made before -several times, in fact. I had to start looking for more creative, dangerous routes when father put more guards in the lobbies and had the fire escape on our building constantly monitored.

This is what I came up with -this most daunting of jumps. I am up thirteen stories, and my goal is a rooftop two stories down. Of course I have made the jump on every attempt -else I would be a grease spot on the ground far below- but it is always nerve-wracking. I always think, ‘Shit,’ with this particular flying leap. I see all my mistakes as I fall. I think it is the end.

Then I am landing with a roll, no worse for wear. Only shaky.

I pull in a deep, deep breath, then loose it slowly. I do it again. Again and again. I tell myself even if I do not make it, I will be fine. Free in a sense. Morbid, yes, but it helps.

With a final deep breath, I jump, propelling myself forward with all my might.

The adrenaline hits immediately, and for a moment, I am flying. There is no such thing as gravity as I soar through the air.

It is a fleeting sensation. The drop comes. My heart and stomach are in my throat.

But there is the roof, and I am landing. Body turning. Wrist, knees, and elbows bent, but the rest of me is otherwise relaxed. Loose. The impact strikes, jarring, but I roll with it -out of it.

I take a moment to collect myself on the roof, waiting until I cease shaking and the tingling in my limbs dissipates. Not more than a moment, though. I cannot risk being spotted.

So, it is back on my feet, and I dart across the roof to the fire escape. I take it down as far as I can, then jump to the next closest roof. This flying leap feels safer, I can see the ground. I know a fall from this height would not absolutely maim me.

From rooftop to roof top, I slide, glide, jump, and scale. I feel my blood pumping in my veins. The wind nipping at my skin. For the moment, I have no goal. I am free, a caged beast given its first taste of freedom. Unstoppable. Ravenous.

I always miss the thrill of running and jumping. Swinging and dangling. I love every moment of it.

Eventually, I end up at Haidee’s, breathless and sweaty in the wee hours of the morning -just when she has opened her shop for the day. I still enter the back way -mostly out of habit- and she welcomes me in with a large breakfast.

She did not know I was coming, but apparently two boys have been crashing at the shop with enough frequency she has taken to mothering them.

“So, they have been good to you?” I inquire of the dear lady as she has me sit at the bar. “Jak gets a bit cranky, and I had my worries he would be rude to you.”

Haidee shakes her head. “He has been… well, not a gentleman, but a good houseguest. He cleans up after himself, and has helped me around the shop once or twice. I could go without Daxter, though... Lazy thing. Boastful.”

I cannot help but smile, but wave my hand. “He is not so bad, but perhaps he is an acquired taste.”

Haidee snorts. “Putting it mildly…” She slides a plate to me, one loaded with sausages, biscuits, eggs, and a bowl of oatmeal. She also provides me with a glass of juice, milk, and water. “You always look so thin after a stint at home,” she mumbles worriedly. “So dim. We’ve talked about this, darling. Even if you’re depressed, you have to eat. You have to keep yourself in tip-top condition.”

“I know,” I say, already tearing into the meal.

And I do know. I try to keep it in mind, but once I am done with my post-tank binge, I focus on mother and the guards. Collecting all that I can before stealing away again. I forget to do anything for myself, and my appetite is lacking until I am free again.

Haidee leaves me to my meal, departing to tend to her shop. I steadily put a dent into the large serving she fixed for me, plotting what I am going to do with the rest of the day. First things first, I need to go see Torn. Get him all the little tidbits I picked up, and let him know Ashelin is going to be MIA for a short while. He’ll be worried the entire time she’s gone.

Then I need to go see Amanat, and get some hunting done. In between my jobs, that is what I plan on doing: hunting, hunting, and more hunting.

“Well look who it is!” A loud voice erupts from the kitchen door way, full of bravado and a charm all its own. “Paarsa! How’s it been?”

I look up from my meal with a smile, finding Jak and Daxter entering into the room. Daxter is immediately off Jak’s shoulder to come pester me. Scampering up close and onto my shoulders. I pat his head as I say, “So-so. You two up to no good?”

“Oh, we’re being the absolute worst,” Daxter assures, smiling widely at me. “Downright dastardly.”

“Is that right?” I look to Jak, who has fixed himself a plate and slid into the seat beside mine.

The green-blonde-haired boy shoots me a devilish smirk. “We’ve been running jobs for some crime boss named Krew. Everything about him is shady, but he’s paid good.” He loses the smirk, his expression becoming a touch more serious. “He confirmed the intel we gathered on the Baron and his eco trade with the Metalheads -proved your theory, too.”

I make noise of complete displeasure. “I was hoping I was wrong, but… fuck.”

Both boys give noises of agreement, then Jak delves into other details. Their missions. Aside from working for Krew, Torn has given them a few jobs. They saved some guy named Vin from the eco mines, and I express my relief at that, because while Vin may be a scatterbrain -clumsy, paranoid- he is useful, and he has always been nice to me. Which always counts for something. 

They have been here, there, everywhere. Doing so much good.

“But what about you?” Jak asks after briefing me. “What did you get up to? Did you… er… get in much trouble?”

I wave away his question, the worry I hear to it. “It was nothing. Boring really. I picked up a few good tidbits, though. …Ah, but I did run away -really run away. I will not go back again.”

_Not until I can heal mother. Not until things are better._

“Ooh! That means you can get up to all kinds of trouble with us now!” Daxter snags one of my sausages. “We hit the town. Paint it red. See what kind of goodies we can find.”

I feel the mischievous smirk take my lips. “I am all for getting into trouble, but… I have a few things to take care of first. And I was wondering if I might get your assistance for one of them.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jak poses.

I lean onto the counter, my smile not faltering for a moment. “Metalhead hunting.”


	8. Pertinent Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. The holidays are a stressful time of the year for me, and now that they are passed, I feel as if I can finally get back into the swing of things.

I really, really, _really _despise firearms.

During my time with the Underground –all my slinking about the Slums– I have seen them used in horrific ways. Used to maim and kill –shred and splinter– in a way I do not believe any other weapon can. I do not like to see them. I would never handle one. Torn tried to give me a morph-gun once –a smaller version I could keep easily concealed– but I would not take it. No, I have turned it down again and again, and instead, he gave me a wicked knife and my retractable bow-staff.

I understand morph-guns are beneficial. I could protect myself better, put an end to enemies from far away should I need to, but I cannot bring myself to fire one. I do not even like to touch them.

Jak now wears a morph-gun strapped to his back. I do not know when or where he got it, but I really wish he did not have it. It makes me uncomfortable as we walk the short distance from the garage where the Underground keeps their zoomers to the base itself.

He would never turn it on me –or, at least, I do not think he would– but I cannot help but tread carefully. Accidents happen.

I will not tell him to ditch it. I understand his need for it –how useful it must be.

Jak and Daxter play a dangerous game, too.

I try to forget the gun as I listen to the grating of stone against stone as the passage down into the superficial chamber of the base opens up to allow us entry, and I feel right at home as I follow Jak down the stairs into the antechamber. Torn is there, speaking with a few of our fellow operatives. They exchange scraps of paper and the like before heading out to take care of their own business.

Torn’s attention then falls on the three of us, and while he gives Jak and Daxter a short head nod of acknowledgement, a look of relief washes over his face as his eyes light on me.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” he teases.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I respond, smiling beneath my scarf. “I was waiting for some good intel before coming back.” And I step forward drawing a sealed envelope from my pack. I hand it to him, then draw Ashelin’s letter from a secret pocket.

He must recognize the stationery -the curling scrawl- right away, for he is obviously more interested in the letter from his lady love than the pertinent information I brought him. He sets the envelope down, taking her letter from me to look into immediately.

A look of fondness spreads across the hard man’s face –a smile he reserves only for Ashelin– and even a chuckle rumbles from him. Then there comes a look of mild confusion that slowly morphs into concern as he begins to count something or another on his fingers.

“She was going to contact me by radio three days ago,” he finally says, frowning. Clearly worried. He looks from the letter to me. “Did she mention anything about the mission to you?”

Beneath my hood and scarf, I match his frown, an ember of worry sparks to life in my chest. “Only that she was going on it.”

Torn folds the letter, tucking it away in a pocket of his light armor, his fingers rake back through brown hair.

“I can get out of the city if you want someone to go looking,” I say, watching how his brows furrow with thought. “She mention where her mission was taking her in the letter?”

“Something out Pumping Station ways has the Baron’s attention,” he responds, brows staying pinched. “I don’t like the thought of you going out that far –I know you go there all the time, but she could be set in deep… Jak, you go with Paarsa. You shoot, they guide. I want them back safe, and let me know as soon as you can if Ashelin is safe.”

Jak nods simply. “I’ll get it done.”

I nod as well, telling Torn not to worry. Ashelin is resourceful. Tough. I think she can survive anything.

Torn smiles softly. He knows I am right, but I know he loves Ashelin, and loving someone has a way of making one worry. Panicky. Willing to do anything.

“Be careful out there,” Torn says. “All three of you.”

* * *

It is midday when we arrive at the Pumping Station, the sun –hindered by only a few wispy tufts of grey clouds– hangs directly overhead, and I shimmy out of my cloak and scarf so I can soak in the rays properly. My toes curl in the sand as I stretch, my back popping satisfactorily as I pull in a deep breath of the briny breeze –and unfortunately fish. There is always an undercurrent of fish.

But I do not mind it in the least. It makes me feel comfortable, at ease.

The ground goes suddenly out from under my feet as a great weight slams into me, taking me down into the sand. A wire-like tongue drags all over my face, and my initial fear is replaced in a heartbeat by laughter and relief.

I push at the snout of Amanat, bidding it to please stop while I also shout at Jak to not shoot.

From my peripheries, I see him lower his morph-gun but not put it away, the most perplexed of expressions pulling at his face.

Amanat stops with all its licking, pulling back enough to let me sit up.

“It is nice to see you, too,” I tell it, scratching gently underneath its chin.

The Metalhead churrs, “Ffffrish. Ffffrish,” at me, over and over again.

I nod, pulling myself to my feet and dusting as much sand off as I can. “Yes, yes. Fish.”

Amanat sits patiently in the sand as I wade out into the shallow, lapping waves and start searching for its meal. Jak and Daxter follow after me, staring at me in confusion and question, as well as cutting wary looks over their shoulder at Amanat.

“I made a friend,” I tell them simply, finding a mostly intact fish and tossing it back to the shore. I can hear the crunch and snap as Amanat immediately devours. “It saved me last I was here, and we struck up an agreement. Fish for helping me hunt its kin.”

“You get up to weird stuff when you’re alone,” Daxter comments, watching me incredulously.

I nod, acknowledging that as true.

“Are you sure you can trust it?” Jak asks of me, his voice pitched softly as if he’s wary the Metalhead listens. “I mean, it’s a _Metalhead._ You know, one of the creatures that basically destroyed the world?”

“I am aware, but Amanat is different. You will see it, too.” I fish another dead animal from the surf, throwing it to my creature. “Put the gun away for a moment, would you? Help me feed it.”

Jak watches me for a solid minute, not looking the least bit happy; but he finally sighs, putting away his gun, and searches the water with me. He finds his first fish after a moment or two, and I notice him holding it up, studying it with a thoughtful frown.

“This looks like a lurkershark,” he mutters. “They’re… they’re supposed to be huge.”

I look at the fish I pulled from the water. It is an ugly thing, certainly monstrous in its looks, but not big enough to be threatening. I have never seen one longer than my forearm. “How huge?”

“Bigger than a boat,” Daxter says. “Big enough to swallow you whole…” His little face scrunches up. “This is kind of sad.”

“Maybe they had a better environment in which to thrive where you come from,” I suggest. “The water here is not the cleanest. Not a lot of food for them to eat –other than each other.” I toss my catch Amanat’s way. “Where do you come from by the way? I have wanted to ask, but was not sure I should.”

Jak tosses the so-called lurkershark beach-ways while Daxter answers, “We grew up in Sandover Village. I don’t where it is in relation to… here.” He gestures around. “I think we’re worlds away.”

Humming thoughtfully, I go back to combing the surf, wondering where Sandover Village might be. I have never heard of it before; as far as I know, there are only one or two cities like Haven –well, not like Haven exactly. Just other bastions of human survival. Perhaps it is somewhere beachy like this. Perhaps its people are free. Perhaps it is a different world, and that is why Jak and Daxter seem so out of place in this one.

Working together, we manage to find a good many fish, enough to actually fill Amanat –it lets me know with another odd, churring, “Ffffrull.”

Jak and I pick our way back to the shore, Daxter griping about the smell. I tell him it will wash off eventually. I can tell such an answer does not please him, but he does stop complaining.

“Any ideas where we should start looking for… Ashelin, was it?” Jak asks of me, sky-blue eyes combing over the beach.

“It will not be too hard, there are only so many dry spots out here.” I motion with my chin for him to follow me. He does so dutifully, and Amanat takes off ahead of us, acting as a scout.

I am, unfortunately, very wrong. The Metalheads are settled in thick today, and it is a constant fight to make any progress forward. Amanat’s claws and teeth and Jak’s morph-gun come very much in handy, and even I manage to do something with my knife. I drop down from high perches onto unsuspecting Metalheads, and slide the knife through the spaces in their thick plating. Then Jak or Amanat finish it off.

The more I do it, the better I get. It becomes easier to tell where their weak points are at, where I can bury my knife to put them down quickly. Jak and Amanat are able to focus better on protecting themselves and not constantly watching over me. The killing becomes less of an event and more like a chore.

We pick our way up a cliff-climbing path, palm trees and frond plants thick on either side. Ahead of us, I spot a red, Krimzon Guard hellcat parked. It floats mere inches above the ground, empty. But a few feet away, a stone protrudes from the ground, and within it, a golden seal of the House of Mar is planted.

I stoop low to investigate the rock, and Amanat sits beside me, three eyes scanning back and forth. Jak and Daxter walk a circle around the hellcat, the latter commenting he cannot believe we are assisting a Krimzon Guard.

“Ashelin is a great help, a friend,” I say factually, rising to my feet. I want to call for her, but that would be stupid of me. I would attract any nearby critters to our position. “My best friend. Be nice.”

There comes a rustle from the canopy above. I look up in time to see the red-haired beauty come dropping down, landing neatly upon her feet before me.

“Paarsa?” She looks both glad and annoyed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Take a guess,” I bid of her, smiling.

She shakes her head, already knowing. “A few days late on reporting in, and he sends you to come hunt me down? All by yourself?”

“I am not alone." I gesture to Jak, Daxter, and Amanat. "And it would be fine even if I was.”

Ashelin’s green eyes go round as the moon at the sight of the Metalhead sitting there patiently, expectantly, its tail thumping lightly on the ground. “I have so many questions,” she murmurs, surprise morphing into confusion –then mild disgust. Or what looks like disgust as her sharp eyes pick over Jak and Daxter. “The new guys?” she looks to me briefly in question.

I nod. “Jak. Daxter. This is Ashelin.”

Jak tilts his chin in silent greeting, then clamps his hand over Daxter’s mouth when the ottsel purrs out, "Hey, bab-."

I suppress a snort as I go on, "Ashelin, these two are Jak and Daxter." And I shoot her a pleading look, silently asking her to be amiable even though Daxter started to hit on her.

She softly rolls her eyes. “Good to meet you, I suppose,” she says, arms folding over her chest. “Keep Paarsa safe, yeah? Make sure they get all the way back to base.”

I sigh heavily. First Torn, now Ashelin. Does everyone think me so weak? In need of a guard?

The traitorous Krimzon Guard cuts me a knowing look. “You won’t carry a gun, Paarsa.”

“I have a knife and a Metalhead.”

“You’re also so slight,” she goes on. “The wind could blow and take you away with it.”

I make a sour face at her; the grin she turns on me is teasing.

Then suddenly gone, transformed into a hard line as she draws her pistol from her hip.

“Company,” she warns, firing off into the brush –at a Metalhead that comes slinking out.

It falls to its side, oil-like blood spurting from a hole in its neck.

I scramble into a tree before we become surrounded, my knife held between my teeth as I maneuver from branch to branch, watching as Metalheads swarm from the greenery. The gunfire is immediate, relentless. Amanat a blur. I pull my eyes away, knowing they will be fine -or trusting they will be. I focus on myself, on putting myself behind the biomechanicals. Then I become a blur myself, moving fast and furiously, slicing through soft spots before my presence is noticed.

I might not put down as many as Jak and Ashelin with their guns, but I do my part, arising blood-stained and panting from the carnage when the last of the Metalheads falls to the ground.

Ashelin watches me closely, thoughtfully, as I sheathe my knife. I pretend not to notice.

“Sometimes, I forget we trained you to be so deadly,” she remarks. “It’s your face. Too sweet. There’s a reason we have you slated for espionage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Any news for Torn?”

“Nothing concrete,” she answers, stepping up to me, ripping a length of her shirt off at the hem and wiping at my cheeks with it. “The Baron’s planning something big, and it has to do with Mar.” Her chin jerks to the stone. “He keeps sending us out on suicide missions, looking for artifacts from his time. …The only person I know to talk to would be that blind, old soothsayer in the bazaar.”

“Onin?” I ask, plucking a leaf from her braids.

Ashelin nods. “She always knows something she shouldn’t –couldn’t.”

She discards the oil-dripping strip of cloth, hugging me tightly. I squeeze her in turn

“Don’t get into too much trouble,” she tells me, releasing me from her grip to make towards the hellcat. “I’ll leave any information I gather with Haidee.”

“I will do the same,” I assure. “And you be just as careful.”

She nods, slipping into her hellcat before turning her gaze on the two boys lingering close by. “I will strangle you both if Paarsa gets hurt in any way, shape, or form, I swear it.”

“Ashelin,” I groan. “Stop.”

But she does not. No, she continues to level that menacing gaze of hers upon Jak and Daxter until the former gives a verbal, “I’ll keep them safe.”

Daxter dips his head in agreement. “Yeah. They're golden with us, sugar. Don’t worry about it.”

Ashelin’s expression hardens, but she nods. And with a two-fingered salute, she starts up her hellcat and takes to the sky.

“She seemed nice,” Jak says, voice dry as a bone, drawing my eyes from the sky.

“She _is _nice,” I state firmly. “She saved my life. I probably would have overdosed in a gutter somewhere if not for her. …She will warm up to you one day. Maybe.”

Daxter sighs longingly, staring in the direction her hellcat went. “She was hot.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “I would keep such observations to myself when she is around…”

But she is hot. I cannot deny that, and she certainly helped out with Metalhead hunting. There are over a dozen bodies on the ground, each one with a shining skull gem planted in the cranium.

"Take as many as you can carry," I bid of Jak, "and I will do the same."

We set to it.


	9. Something Precious

The sun has begun its descent. Pink and orange and purple bleed into the sky.

Jak, Daxter, and I watch the sunset from my favoured perch, our bags –full of skull gems– resting on the ground far below with Amanat keeping watch. Our worries are left there, too, for this moment is the most tranquil I have known since meeting the pair. We have already spoken with Torn via Jak’s comms device, so there is no pressing matter to attend to. There are no gun-toting guards. No factories to explode. No ominous omens from an ancient statue to keep in mind.

We do not speak much –even Daxter keeps his thoughts to himself– and I lose myself to the breeze. The sound of the ocean below. The lush green grass beneath my fingertips. I briefly entertain the thought of running away from everything, but it is just a thought. A daydream.

A tapping at my leg pulls me from fleeting fantasies. Jak’s foot gently prods at me; I look to him with a raised brow.

“We should get back,” he suggests, “the sun’s getting low, and I feel like fighting Metalheads in the dark isn’t the smartest thing.”

I nod, rising to my feet smoothly and offering him a hand. He takes it, and I pull him to his feet. Then we quickly make our way downwards to the platform where we left our bags and Amanat. We shoulder the packs, then make towards the old door leading into Haven.

It is a quiet walk back to the city, as peaceful as our moment on the cliff. It makes it easy to forget we are in a dangerous place. That enemies skulk in the foliage and gently lapping waves.

“How many skull gems do you think we need for that Oracle to teach us anything?” Jak asks of me, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

“Too many,” I guess. “More than we have here with us. Hopefully another haul or two like this will earn us a lesson.”

“Do you think it’s smart?”

I cock a curious brow at him. “Smart?”

“To go along with what it’s asked of us. To…” His eyes, briefly touching mine, go to the sand. He looks concerned. Confused. Distant suddenly. Jak sighs. “I listened to them before. I thought I was a hero. But being the hero got me here, and I… I don’t think I want that anymore –anything to do with it. Everything went horribly wrong.”

I blink, amazed and confused to hear something to sad and telling from Jak. He has been very guarded since we met, difficult, and now he presents me with this openness and vulnerability. I honestly do not know what to say for a moment.

Daxter speaks before I get a chance to. “Yeah… being heroes has kinda screwed us over, hasn’t it?” He does not sound bothered by it; no, his tone is almost wistful. “It was great for a while though, you gotta admit.”

Jak shrugs.

“You…” I lick my lips still so uncertain as to what I should say. “You do not have to learn its lesson. You do not have to do anything you do not want to do, Jak. If you wish it, you can walk away from the Oracle, from all of this, but I… Jak, it said the dark eco would devour you. If it can grant you the means to combat it, I would seize it.”

I try to search his face, but he still looks to the ground. The sky has grown darker, further skewing my vision.

“You do not have to be a hero; you do not have to do this to help the Oracle or anyone else. It can be for yourself so that you survive long enough to bring down the Baron.” I smile gently at the boy. “And honestly, I would like for you not to be driven mad and consumed by dark power. I rather like you –and Daxter.”

It is hard to tell if his lips quirk or not, but I am almost positive they did –even if it was for a split second. But Jak looks up, looks to me. “Are you trying to be the hero, Paarsa? Is that why you want to do this?”

I pause, physically pause, thinking on this for a moment. Is that what I am doing? Playing at the hero? I want to know what the Oracle can teach me so that I can use it to help others, to stop the forces I perceive as evil, but…

In no way, shape, or form do I consider myself a hero.

I am just Paarsa. I do not want the recognition or fame or glory. I just want to help people. I want the Baron gone. I want the heal the city –my mother– and then I want…

I just want to go, to fade away into obscurity.

“It does seem like it,” I murmur, “but that is not what I want. Too much comes with that title –expectations. Sacrifices. I already feel as if the weight of the world rests upon my shoulders, and I am simply a pawn in a game played by higher ups. …I just want… I want everyone to have a better life. I wish we could all be on the same footing, equals. But that is never how our world will work. So, if I can make it even a little better then I will do the bidding of the Oracle.”

I look to Jak in question. “What will you do? Why will you do it?”

My query is met by silence, and initially, I think it because Jak has no answer –or rather, he does not want to answer me. His guard has returned; that candid moment is over. But then there comes this rustling from the brush, and I wonder if he had not responded because he heard something. Sensed something with that more beastly side of him.

I quiet down as well, glancing over my shoulder to the thick, tropical foliage we just exited from. Despite the darkness, my eyes register movement, a shadow lumbering forth. Then suddenly springing out, the gold of a skull gem glimmering in the meager light provided by the moon and stars.

Jak’s gun fires; the creature falls to the side. There is no relief, for it is followed by another shadow and another. So many of them, swarming so quickly. Amanat rushes them head-on and Jak steadily fires.

I do not know what to do. I have my knife, but no safe perches. Nowhere to hide until I can jump out and catch the Metalheads unawares. But I draw the blade anyway, and move into the stance Torn drilled me on time and time again, gritting my teeth and readying myself.

The first one that reaches me must not think much of me. An easy kill. But I easily dodge its lunge before turning on it myself, jumping atop it when it hits the sand and driving my knife down between the plates of its natural armor. It shrieks; I remove my knife only to drive it home again.

It falls; I roll off of it, catching sight of Amanat thoroughly brutalizing a corpse while Jak shoots down one lunging at him. Daxter, trying to get himself out of danger, jumps down from Jak’s shoulder and goes running down the beach, disappearing into a thicket of palm trees.

“Amanat,” I call out, “follow Daxter! Keep him safe!”

It takes a final bite out of its fallen kin before chasing after the disappeared ottsel.

Somewhat relieved, I refocus on myself, on the second Metalhead coming at me. I am able to handle it in much the same way, but there is a third Metalhead right on its heels, and I do not recover from my attack in time. I am not fast enough as I try to jump back, away, from the swipe of razor claws.

Warmth blooms across my chest, the first sensation that comes to me, then there comes the burning sting that has me gasping aloud and stumbling back, striking the sand. I cannot find my breath, my knife. There are the stars, then the wicked teeth and wiry tongue of a Metalhead.

And then there is Jak, dark and demented, tackling the creature from the side and ripping into it with the same viciousness Amanat reserves for its kills.

Despite the tight pain of my chest, I pull myself up into a sitting position, my hand flaring with the pitiful amount of eco I can channel. It soothes the pain, slows the bleeding. I try to get to my feet, find my knife, as I call out warnings to the monster Jak has become.

Five have surrounded him, but he takes them out in an eye-blink –then two more. Another and another. It is all oil and bright violet electricity. Damp sand. The glint of skullgems. Then panicky yelps as the three remaining Metalheads start high-tailing it away from the dark creature.

And Jak gives chase.

“No, no, no.” I scramble after Jak, holding a hand to my shredded chest. “Jak!”

I cannot let him run off on his own –he does not know this place, especially not in the form he is in. And what if the Metalheads lead him to more of their kin? Enough that he is overwhelmed? Or perhaps he prevails, and the demon that lurks just beneath his skin becomes empowered. What if I cannot get him to calm down? What if he is lost to the darkness, becoming some feral thing that stalks the sands?

The adrenaline coursing through my veins is the only reason I manage to catch up, and desperation has me lunging at him, my arms outstretched to wrap around him.

Our bodies hit the sand, and it is all I can do to hold onto him as we roll. Each rotation feels as if it further tears at my skin.

When we come to a stop, he is a thrashing weight upon me, and he is so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. But I hold him so tightly. I try to assure him of our safety. That everything is fine. He is alright. He is in no danger. He chased the danger off, does he not realize that? He did so well, I tell him, but now it is time to stop and breathe. To come back to me please.

I summon up every scrap of the eco I can channel, hoping I can continue healing myself as well as calm him, but suddenly his hands are around my neck. What light there is inside of me sputters out with a surge of panic and fear.

I do not think he recognizes me. No, in the inky eyes boring down into mine, there is no recollection. No sign of him. There is only rage and hatred as the snarling thing chokes the life out of me.

Desperate, I shout for Daxter, but my voice is strangled, nonexistent. And he ran off anyhow –and with Amanat on his tail.

My mind runs a mile a minute. The world goes blurry around the edges, and my lungs burn, adding to the pain in my chest. My eyes brim with tears. I try to push Jak off of me, but I am even weaker than I was before. I shake and falter, and I am so scared.

I should be mad at him. I should be scratching and kicking, but I am not. I am angry at Baron Praxis. At the universe for playing us both such shitty cards. I am scared for Jak. I know he will be devastated when he comes back to himself and finds me dead beneath him. Not just because he killed a friend (and I am certain we are friends), but because –for just a moment– the darkness won. He could not wrangle it before he did something truly regrettable. It will be a heavy blow, and he will hide that it was. He puts on such tough, uncaring faces, but he is so sensitive. So emotional. The guilt will eat at him.

My shaking, weak hand finds his ashen face, and I run my thumb along his cheekbones. I think about the short amount of time we have been friends, my mind playing through the night we ran along rooftops and outran guards on a zoomer. How he cared enough about me at that silly club to try to force me to have a drink of water to sober me up. I remember having to play at a sex-driven ninny, nibbling at his ear.

My heart races and pounds painfully in my chest. Too loud. Too much pressure.

Though the demon’s face is blurry, I see it change. Soften. The vise-like grip around my neck lessens, and I am able to choke down a breath of air. There is naught but pain as it fills my lungs, but I do not focus on it. No, I focus on the demon and the way his lips are suddenly against mine, stealing my breath away once more. Feeling it as those hands that tried to squeeze the life out of me make such gentle movements. He brushes my hair from my face, runs fingers along my jaw and cheekbones. Then he moves to cradle me, holding me to his chest as he makes the world spin.

This is somehow even more shocking than him trying to strangle me to death.

But I let it continue because it… it is not bad. Not bad at all. The threat of bleeding out on the sand becomes the furthest thing from my mind as I lean into the kiss, the touches. It is nice to be held, cradled. Handled as if something precious.

I could let it go on forever, but I remember the light feeling enveloping me is not all due to the boy. I might just be on the verge of passing out. So, I turn my face; a kiss –two– plant against my cheek.

“Jak,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper, painful to use. “Have to do something about my wound.”

He hisses, “Shit,” and suddenly I am being lifted, held bridal-style to his chest. “_Shit_. I’m sorry, Paarsa.”

I wave a bloodied hand, dismissing his apology. There is too much pain to speaking.

“I couldn’t see anything for a moment,” he blathers, guilt hastening the explanation I do not need. “It’s like I wasn’t there. I completely blanked when I saw you hit the sand. Got so mad, then swept away. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to.”

I give the boy staring down at me a thumbs-up, once more trying to summon up my abilities. They flicker, waver, but they come to me. I wrap my hands around my throat as Jak had done, willing it better. Some of the soreness dissipates; I hold my hands to my chest, concentrating so I can keep the flame of my power burning.

“I forgave you already,” I tell him, voice as loud as I can currently manage. “I understand. …Carry me for a while, please. I need to focus on this.”

He does not say a word, but he does move forward, and I zone out as I try to keep a grip on the eco under my skin. I sort of hear it when we find Daxter and Amanat, and I reach out to pat at the both of them, then I go right back to trying to close my wounds.

There are four separate ones by what I can feel. They start under my left clavicle and end close to my heart. They are not deep, but they are jagged. I worry the most I can do is stave off infection and bleeding to death.

We have reached the door to Haven when I come back to myself, and I have Jak set me on my feet. My legs are jelly-like, but Jak and Amanat stand close by, making sure I stay upright as I check over the wounds. There are four as I thought, deeper than I assumed, but just as gnarly as I suspected. They no longer leak crimson, and it appears as if they have closed somewhat towards the ends.

“Ewe, that looks bad,” Daxter says. I can hear the grimace in his voice.

“It could be worse,” I murmur. “I left a cloak and scarf around here somewhere…”

Amanat pads away, coming back with my discarded clothes. I thank it kindly as I rip the scarf lengthwise. I use it to temporarily bind my wounds, then I dawn my cloak, covering my face. My mouth.

“There is a safehouse not too far away from the Oracle’s hut” I say. “We can rest there tonight and visit it in the morning.”

I turn to bid Amanat goodbye and goodnight, scratching it under its chin and telling it I will see it soon. It churrs at me, leaning into the touch and licking at me with its wiry tongue.

Smiling softly, I turn from the Pumping Station and my unlikely friend to the rusted, old door leading into Haven City. Jak stays close at my side as I walk up to it and get it open, and he remains so close, a hand at my lower back, as we walk the night-darkened piers of the Slums.

We stay quiet, wary, as we go. If guards were to find us out and about at this hour, there would be hell to pay. But the universe must be granting me some good luck after all it did earlier, for we run into no patrols, making it to the safehouse.

I leave my bag of skull gems by the door and wordlessly go to the small bathing room at the back of the house. I lock myself in and begin the process of cleaning myself up in a sink that only spews out cold water.

It takes a while, for I am extra careful around the tears in my flesh. I dab at them gently with a wet rag to clean the blood and gingerly apply the disinfectant that has my eyes watering and curses hissing out from between my lips. When it is done, I bind my chest with gauze and proper bandages.

Then I wash my face, trying not to look at my reflection in the grimy mirror on the wall. I know I look like hell, because I feel like hell. The face in the mirror will be tired. Dark circles under the golden eyes that only serve as reminders of my father. And I have no desire to see what kind of bruises form around my neck.

With myself cleaned and doctored as well as I can manage, I head straight from the bathroom and into an empty bedroom just down the hall. I find new clothes but only bother with putting on the sturdy trousers before I fall face-first onto a rickety, little bed and fall deep, deep asleep.

* * *

I do not know how long I sleep, but when I wake, I wake to the smell of something burning.

The scent has my groggy mind clearing somewhat, my senses alert. I manage to pull my achy body out of bed and trudge to the bathroom where I splash my face with water and check my throat for bruising. My healing did more than I thought it would, lessening what would no doubt be deep-purple welts into yellowish-brown patches.

The wounds on my chest are another matter entirely. They still look so angry to me, and during the night, they let some blood. I clean up the affected area, disinfect, and re-bandage. Then I head towards the kitchen, where the smell and smoke originate from.

“Told you we shoulda waited for Paarsa to wake up,” Daxter says in a tone sounding purely of I-told-you-so. “You’ve never been good at cooking. How many times did you almost set Samos’ hut on fire, huh?”

There’s a soft, but sharp, thump followed by an, “Ow!” from Daxter.

“I didn’t want them to have to cook for us…” Jak says, “and after last night, they deserve to wake up and have breakfast already waiting on them.” He looses a sigh, the sound soft and frustrated. “They and Haidee made it look so easy. She just cracked a few eggs in a skillet then bam. Scrambled eggs.”

I peek around the corner into the kitchen, seeing Jak dumping the smoking contents of a skillet into the garbage while Daxter watches on in amusement.

My lips cannot help but quirk. It is sweet he even tried.

Sweeping into the kitchen, I wordlessly take the dirtied skillet from Jak and give it a quick scrape and scrub in the sink. He makes a noise of rebuttal, but I turn a smile on him and tell him I appreciate the thought.

“Now, both of you watch,” I go on, waving them over to the stove-top to stand beside me, “I cannot have two grown men not knowing how to cook.”

They hover behind me as I drop a small pat of butter into the skillet, and as it melts, I pull out the remaining eggs and a pair of wooden chopsticks from the utensil drawer. I crack the eggs directly into the skillet, then scramble them with the chopsticks. I let Jak take over, but keep watch as I show Daxter how to make toast with a toasting fork.

They both manage with their simple tasks, and we sit down to a very simple breakfast of eggs, toast, water, and weak green tea. After which, the boys help with the washing up and drying, and as I watch them clean up behind themselves properly, a flush of pride and fondness swells in my chest. I feel like I am watching my children grow up.

We sit in the kitchen for a while after we have finished, taking a moment before setting out into Haven. I hold Daxter in my arms as if he is a baby, cradling him, scratching under his chin and at his stomach. He hopped onto my lap to look at the bruises on my neck, asking what happened. Instead of answering, I scooped him up and distracted him. He appears as if he is in heaven, his query forgotten.

“What is on the agenda for today?” I ask of Jak, looking away from Daxter’s rapidly kicking foot and to the blonde adjacent to me.

“Torn hasn’t sent word for us to do anything else, so I was thinking we follow up that lead Ashelin gave us –visiting the soothsayer,” he answers. “Or… well, I had another idea.”

I raise a brow at the mischievous tone he affected.

“I learned about these old maintenance elevators that lead up into the palace,” Jak goes on, a most devilish smile coming to take his lips. “So, I thought maybe we pay Vin a visit, see if he can get them working, and after… well, we pop in on the Baron.”

“Ooh. That is an interesting idea…” I boop Daxter on the nose, grinning when he sneezes. “There is the potential of catching him unawares, and if we cannot, there is information to be gathered. …I like it. Count me in.”

“You sure you’re up for it?” Jak inquires, eyes lingering on my faint bruises and the bandages binding my chest.

“I can be.”

After setting Daxter down on the table, I place my hands gently on my chest, and attempt to channel my eco. I am beyond pleased when I find weak flame of my power is surprisingly steady this morning. Brighter than it usually is. I am able to grasp it, will it to my fingertips. They glow softly white, and I can feel my skin grow tighter and somewhat itchy beneath my bandages.

I am always so careful about using my gifts, so worried about others seeing, and so I seldom ever use them. They are always a last resort, a final card to play. Maybe that is the reason I find myself unable to do much with them. Perhaps eco-channeling is like running or jumping or climbing. If the muscles are not used, not stretched every now and again, they begin to atrophy. They become useless and weak, and it becomes harder to do anything with them.

But I have been using my powers more often than usual of late, doing more with them. I think I need to keep at it.

I unwrap the top portion of my bandages, finding four, red scars. They are large, but they will fade –and quicker than they ought to if I keep applying my healing touch.

Rewrapping my chest, I give the boys a thumbs-up. “Healed up as they are, I should not have to worry about them reopening. So, yeah. I am up for it.”


	10. Proper Distraction

Our first stop is the Oracle’s hut, and it is a quick visit: just popping in, waiting to see if the candles flare to life, and when they do not, we leave our bounty of skull gems safely inside. Then we make for the Industrial Sector where the power station is located. Vin is here, safe and sound and paranoid as always, and I use a ludicrous amount of shameless flattery to get him to help us.

Once he has finished with his grumbling, rerouting, and by-passing, Jak, Daxter, and I make our way to an old service elevator located at the foot of one of the six towers connecting to the palace. It is a long ride to the top –at least three, solid minutes of high-speed whooshing– and we are let out on a platform where I can see the entirety of Haven City spread out before me, everything from the watery Slums to the pristine cleanliness of Main Town. The wild Bazaar littered with pops of colour and greenery to the harsh steel of the Industrial Sector.

I also see beyond that, more than I could ever spy from my penthouse apartment in the Ilmari Building. There are snow-capped mountains, as well as those looking like the jagged spines along a great monster’s back. An ancient, Precursor temple standing out proudly amongst lush, green tree-tops. The deep, dreamy blue of the ocean.

And then there is the massive cable spanning from the tower to the palace, daunting and guarded. If our only task was to walk over it, it would be a piece of cake. The entirety of the cable has paneling along the length of it, easy to walk across, but there are security measures –guns– and segments of the damned thing look to be electrified.

“Oh great!” Daxter groans. “It can’t ever be easy –we can’t just walk somewhere unbothered for once in our damned lives. No, there’s gotta be guns! Arcs of electricity!” He sags over Jak’s shoulder. “I don’t want to do this.”

“It will be difficult,” I murmur, doing some warm-up stretches. I already know this run is going to be a workout. “But the way is lain out before us, we just have to find a way to safely navigate it.” I roll my shoulders, steeling myself, putting any fear at the back of my head. “Last one there is a rotten egg.”

I jump off the platform, down onto one lower, and hear Jak on my heels (as well as Daxter bemoaning his fate).

At first we are side-by-side, leaping over gaps almost in sync, but there comes a time when we split –when our path is blocked by a segment of electrified paneling– and he goes one way and I go another, dropping down onto a platform running along the side of the cable.

There are many poles here, good for swinging, and crossing them is a thousand times more exhilarating and terrifying than the jump I make from the Ilmari Building. There is nothing beneath me but open air, and my arms are the only thing keeping me from plummeting to my death. Each time I swing from one to the next, I feel the wind rip through me as if it might carry me away. I am soaring, about to begin falling, but then I catch myself and prepare to do the same thing again.

And then suddenly, I am standing on a platform, quivering from the adrenaline. I power on, jumping over gaps, then climbing upwards to find myself on a platform with Jak. He has his gun out, firing off several rounds at a turret that has not spotted us yet. He manages to do enough damage to put it out of commission, then we are on the move again. Side-by-side for a short while until our paths diverge once more.

I go down again, finding more jutting poles to launch myself from, then a rusted old platform that gives way beneath my feet.

I lunge forward, grasping wildly for something; my hands catch on a platforming strut, and I scramble to pull myself upwards.

There is a groan, a metallic creak. The platform quivers and jolts. It suddenly falls, then catches, and I know it will not last much longer. Not with me hanging on it. I hurriedly move from strut to strut, looking for another platform, another pole. Anything to latch onto.

I find it in the form of a not-so-stable-looking metal ladder clinging to the side of the cable paneling, and I shoot up it like a lightning bolt, hissing, “Shit, shit, shit,” the entire way.

Back on semi-solid ground, I find another turret; but to my relief, it is behind me. Its barrel pointed elsewhere… Elsewhere being at Jak, who has to drop down to a lower platform to avoid being blasted full of holes.

I make towards the turret, and without much care or consideration, I yank out a handful of protruding wires from its base, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

The barrel of the gun droops downward; the blinking red lights on its side go dim.

I shout to Jak to hurry up before running onwards.

Thankfully, that is the last challenge the cable presents. The rest of the walk is rather straightforward with a few low-risk jumps and a bit of climbing where it connects to the palace.

I sit down once I reach a portion of the roof that is nice and flat and not liable to fall out beneath me, pulling in deep breaths and exhaling through my nose. I think that was perhaps the most challenging run I have ever had, and though I absolutely love to jump and swing and climb, I do not think I ever want to do that again. Not any time soon, at least.

Jak arrives only a moment or two later, and as he huffs in lungfuls of air, he tells me he wants a rematch.

“No! No. No rematches,” Daxter pleads, falling from Jak’s shoulder. I catch him before he has a chance to hit the ground. He clenches at his heart as I hold him in my arms. “I can’t go through that again. My heart… Ooh boy.”

I pet his head gently as we all collect ourselves, letting him mumble and moan to his heart’s content.

* * *

We walk along the palace rooftop –rooftops. There are some segments of the building that climb higher, others rest lower, and so we are constantly scaling or sliding downwards as we search for somewhere we can safely –quietly– enter through. A light rain sets in as we skulk about, a persistent pitter-patter that has the tiling slick. Dangerously so. I almost lose my footing twice or more as we start to cross a segment of the palace that has a glass dome for a roof.

I pause as we cross it, a deep, rumble of a voice sounding from down below. I recognize it immediately.

We slide back down to where we started, crouching low in hopes we were not spotted, for in the room beneath us stand three figures: Baron Praxis, a solid, heavily-built man with greying, auburn hair and half his face replaced with robotics; Anouk Ilmari, as grey and dour as I have ever seen him; and… ewe. Errol, the relatively new commander of the Krimzon Guard. He is a bastard of a man, unsavoury in every aspect.

We hate each other for multiple reasons. I loathe him mostly for who he is as a person and how shamelessly he used to hit on me. He despises me because I will not sleep with him and have often made a fool out of him at functions we both were unfortunate to end up at (yet he always manages to make it clear he would still fuck me regardless of the animosity between us).

The three men stand before a holographic image of what I can only describe as a monster. Just its head is larger than the Baron, and it is all razor teeth and odd protrusions. Wicked mandibles. Its voice a deep, menacing rasp as it tells Praxis the deals he makes are absolutely worthless. It grows impatient, it proclaims, jaws gnashing. It wants its eco. If it does not get it, all of Haven will pay the price.

The hologram flickers out, and a puffed-up Errol –in his crimson and gold armor– turns on the Baron, fist raised and clenched. “He’s toying with us! Let me lead an assault on the Nest before it’s too late!” He seems so stupidly sure of himself as he states, “I can take him.”

My father shakes his head, and I can imagine how unimpressed his visage must be at this very moment. His tone is so cut and dry, dismissive. “Impudent. Irrational. You would die in an instant.”

The Baron tilts his chin in acknowledgement, one of his hands straying to the mechanized portion of his face. “Have patience, Errol. You see what comes of such foolish plans.”

Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. I miss whatever the Baron says, catching only the tail end. It is an order, aimed forcefully at Errol, “Tell Ashelin to up her patrols, I want that tomb found.”

Errol makes a face of pure displeasure. “Your daughter has not been very… agreeable lately.”

The Baron turns his face, annoyance flashing across his countenance. “I’ll see to her.”

“Ashelin is Praxis’ daughter?” Jak asks of me in surprise, his voice a hissing whisper.

I nod simply, asking in a soft voice. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Daxter says, tone snippy. “That important tidbit just slip your mind?”

“Seems so… But it changes nothing.” I assert, “She is on our side. She always has been, she always will be.”

“And find the child,” comes my father’s stern voice. “We would have him by now if it were not for all the time you spend hanging off that mechanic girl.”

Errol’s posture stiffens, and it is absolutely delightful to see the embarrassed –angered– expression which crosses his face. “As you wish,” he says tightly. “With enough persuasion, I’m sure our spy-.”

Daxter sneezes very, very loudly. It is perhaps the loudest, most dramatic sneeze I have ever heard, and it so shatters the serious atmosphere.

I back away from the glass roof in a hurry, pulling Jak and him with me, hoping dearly we were not spotted. It is impossible to tell, but it feels as if we have been caught; and I cannot blame Jak for the annoyed look he shoots Daxter.

“We need to leave,” I say lowly, urgently. “If we could hear them, then most certainly they heard that.”

Jak nods in agreement; Daxter mumbles in discontent as he climbs his way back onto the blonde’s shoulder.

We move as fast as we dare with the tiling so slick, sliding down sloped segments of roof and peeking around corners. I lead us, for I know the palace, and I am somewhat certain if we keep the way we are going, we will come across Ashelin’s mother’s quarters. They are abandoned, dim and locked away. From there, I could find us a way down and out.

Rounding a corner, the muted roar of propulsion engines greet my ears, and it is far too late to turn around and hide.

Baron Praxis is right there, hovering in a small, armored ship with incredibly large gun barrels on either side. They are aimed at us as the Baron’s voice rings out, proclaiming us rats. And he must recognize Jak, for he asks the boy at my side if he is back for a few more dark eco treatments.

Jak and Daxter both bare their teeth at the Baron, and I grab the boy by the hand, tugging him along harshly after me as the bullets come ripping through the air. I run –I make him run. I know he wants to stand his ground and fight, but he has a measly gun and the Baron has a gun-_ship_.

Bullets chip off the roof as I pull Jak behind the cover of a wall, and from there, I see our only option would be to climb upwards on slanting, slick shingles. There are windows higher up to smash through, but we would be shot through before getting close.

Jak shakes off my hand as my brain whirs, trying to come up with a solution. It is hard to think with gunfire drawing ever closer, with the Baron taunting us. Promising our deaths.

“Climb, Paarsa,” Jak orders; my gaze snaps to him in question, disbelief. “I’ll keep him off you.”

I shake my head vehemently. “I-I can-.”

What can I do? Heal a single, fucking bullet hole? Make a proper distraction?

“You should be the one to go,” I say. “You… you are… The Underground needs you more than it needs me.”

Jak is more useful than me, a greater asset. I should take his gun and make a spectacle of myself so he can get away.

His pure blue eyes darken dangerously at that, and he raises his gun, firing off a round into one of the distant windows. I hear it shatter amongst the rain and roar of the gun-ship. “Go,” he tells me, voice hard and final. He darts off, taking the gunfire with him.

I am left standing there in the rain with chips of stone at my feet.

But there is no way in hell that I am running, that I would leave him up here without help. There is not much I can do without a proper weapon, but I… I can do something. Anything. I cannot run away.

I scramble up the wall, slipping only twice before I reach a higher segment of the palace. I run along the rooftop, eyes picking around for the Baron and Jak. I hear the gunfire, but I do not see the ship. The rooftops are a maze, twisting and turning, sometimes spitting me out at dead ends.

But I keep running, searching, following the sounds of battle.

I come to a skidding halt when I see the gun-ship flying just below me, circling around Jak, who has crouched into the meager cover of a low wall. The Baron cannot angle his guns properly to reach the boy it seems, for even as he circles and shoots, he is always just shy of the blonde and his panicked-looking ottsel.

Jak, however, is able to clip the Baron’s ship several times in a row, drawing smoke from its left, before darting back into safety.

If I could focus the Baron’s fire elsewhere, he might be able to get in a decimating shot or two. Perhaps enough to send the ship spiraling to the ground. Or perhaps I could obscure his field of vision, make it so that he cannot aim properly.

Either way, I will be a distraction.

With very little thought, I take a flying leap off the roof’s edge, already grasping for a hold on the gun-ship. I find it, hitting the machine with a solid “thunk” that reverberates all throughout my body, setting my teeth to ringing and my arms to shaking. But I hold tight to whatever part of the machine I latched onto, opening my eyes to see myself high up on the back with the Baron looking over his shoulder at me.

I have been up close and personal with the Baron before, sat at his side as entertainment –something pretty to look at– but this is somehow… It feels more intimate in a way. Closer to the truth. He is here, proving himself violent and despicable, and I am trying to kill him. Not smiling or laughing or pretending at something I am not.

He will not know it is me, though. My scarf and hood prevent it.

The ship jolts and tilts heavily to the side as another of Jak’s shots hits the left. I hold tight, inching my way up further on the ship. The Baron whirls around, angling his ship upwards, then plunging down. The wind rushes up around me, and I am weightless, clinging to the ship with all my might. My stomach is in my throat, and my heart thunders wildly in my ears.

I am flying up again, the sudden, quick rise pressing my body against the hull. It feels as if I am being squeezed, my breath stolen away. My ears pop like crazy.

Another shuddering jolt rocks the gun-ship, sending it spiraling to the side.

It strikes a wall harshly, and the impact is enough to fling me off. I hit the wet roof, sliding, rolling. I feel raw all over when I come to a stop, but it is not a sensation I can focus on. Not when I am being pulled to my feet and made to run.

An explosion goes off somewhere behind me, and behind it, I hear the Baron ranting and raving. Assuring destruction, proclaiming dark powers cannot save Jak forever. He was made, the Baron can unmake him.

I do not hear the rest. I am basically tossed through a shattered window, then dragged into a wide vent in the wall.

* * *

Jak, Daxter, and I sit in the dimness of a surprisingly spacious air duct. My back is to one wall; his to another. The ottsel is a puddle on the floor, spread out on his stomach and unmoving. I am somewhat certain he passed out.

But none of us move. Nobody speaks. We listen. We wait.

The palace is, of course, abuzz with activity. I can hear the Krimzon Guards tearing through the interior in search of us, and sometimes they are so close, I hold my breath out of fear they might hear me.

I have no idea how long we stay like this, but the longer it goes on, the more restless I become. Anxious. The duct I initially thought of as spacious becomes ever more cramped. I feel as if it shrinks in on me, and it is as hard and unforgiving as the floor in the drunk tank of the Ilmari Building.

I start to feel as if I am in there, locked away as time slips away from me. All this damnable vent is missing are the bright, glaring lights and a bucket.

I curl in on myself, drawing my legs to my chest and holding them. I set my head upon my knees, breathing deeply as I wait for everything to settle. We could move again. I would feel so much better if I could move.

“Are you okay?”

The whisper is so soft I almost miss it, but it registers. I am too skittish to do anything other than raise a hand to give a thumbs-up.

I tell myself I am okay. This is not the basement cell. I am not alone, and I can leave of my own volition when it is safe. It has only been an hour or two, not days.

There comes a point when things begin to quiet and calm, when we hear it mentioned the intruders must have escaped, and I am moving in an instant, hurrying quietly through the metallic innards of the palace. I slip down ducts, only periodically peering through vents in the floors and walls to see where I am. Jak and Daxter keep close, only once asking if I know where I am going.

Kind of. The ventilation system is a labyrinth, and it is pure luck I manage to get us to the ground level: to a duct high on the wall where I can see the front doors to the palace through the slats in the vent grate. They are closed, but they are only a mere fifteen or so feet away. I could reach them, but I cannot open them. They only open for people with proper clearance.

My lungs are tight in my chest at the thought of having to wait in these damnable vents any longer. The palace is liable to be on lockdown. We could be in here for _days._

But the tightness eases, turning to relief –excitement– when the grand doors slowly part to let someone out.

Errol, in crimson and gold, comes to stand in the doorway. He holds a comms device in his hand, barking orders into it: sweep this sector, do not rest until the eco freak and his little friends are found.

I take my retractable bow-staff into my hand, kick the vent open, drop down, and take off at a hushed run, keeping my steps light but speedy.

The bastard man does not realize I am upon him until a violent swing of my staff hits hard at the back of his head, sending him forward, face planting on the ground.

I keep running, leaping over his splayed-out body to sprint down the palace’s front steps. I by-pass guards, hearing their shouts, but I do not stop for them. I stop for no one. I make it to the closest building, climb my way up its side, and try my damndest to disappear amongst the pipes, overhangs, and balconies.

I would run forever if I was not suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled into the cover of a sandy-white-stoned alcove full of… hanging ferns and the sweet scent of baskets full of fruits. A storage area, I think; and by the architecture, I would say I wound up in the Bazaar.

I am released, and a weight lands upon my shoulders as I stand there huffing in breaths. I hear Daxter in my ear. “Geez, Paarsa. We lost them way back there."

“Oh.”

“Nice work braining Errol,” Jak says from beside me, patting me on the shoulder Daxter does not lounge upon. “That was nice to see.”

I peer at him curiously. “You are familiar with him?”

Jak nods, saying nothing. I can guess where he knows him from.

“I cannot stand him either,” I say. “He deserves to burn alongside the Baron.”

“Agreed.”

We say nothing more, staying tucked away in the alcove for a few minutes longer as we collect ourselves. I have Jak properly dawn his hood and scarf while I fashion a sling bag from a length of a billowy curtain discarded at the back of the little storage area. I have Daxter crawl into it and settle down, for he really is quite noticeable: bright orange and telling.

Shouldering the bag, I step from the shadows with Jak at my side. We blend into the crowded Bazaar.


	11. Brightest Thing

I suppose it is good fortune my panicked running around brought us to the Bazaar. We did need to come here to see Onin after all.

The Bazaar is perhaps my favourite area within the city walls. It has a different feel to it, a liveliness and warmth found nowhere else in Haven. It is colourful, loud with chatter and faint music from street musicians. There are hanging lights and flashing signs. The air is heavy with the scents of flowers, perfumes, and all manners of delectable dishes.

Jak and I act as a meandering couple as we make towards Onin’s tent, elbows linked as we stop at the different food vendors (I buy us lunch) and admire different trinkets. Watch the street performers (I tip them liberally). We make ourselves as unassuming as possible.

Despite the day having been rather shitty, it becomes pleasant –even with the sky still overcast from the earlier rains. It is nice to walk around with Jak, admiring the rare beauty Haven City has tucked about here and there. I do not mind the green-golden-blonde says precious little; his company is warm. Assuring. And if it ever does become too quiet, Daxter’s colour commentary can still be heard from the makeshift bag on my hip.

Our wandering draws to a close as we enter into a square at the very edges of the Bazaar where vendors sell mostly herbs and natural remedies: wares proclaimed to be mystical in some form or another. Onin’s tent occupies a great swathe of the area; it is a dwelling of brown hide, the likeness of a skull painted above the entranceway. I beckon for Jak and Daxter to follow me in.

The inside of the tent smells of incense -of sage, lavender, and rosemary- and is busy in its décor; every inch is lined with some small treasure or another. Bottles and baskets and small, ornate boxes. Herbs hang from the poles providing structure to the tent, as do dead creatures bleeding out over buckets. At the very back of the room, a large totem carved into a skull pours out a purplish glow. Its light sets everything to gleaming eerily.

Including Onin, an ancient woman all skin and bones, who sits before it. Her robes are faded and threadbare, and a chipped dish rests upon her head where a colourful moncaw named Pecker appears to be snoozing. She wears many bracelets and rings, her ears pierced with studs and hoops and chains. Her jewelry catches the purple light, reflecting and shifting.

I bow my head respectfully; Jak does not bother. Neither does Daxter when he comes crawling from the bag I have been carrying him in. They do not have the best manners, and so, they go straight away to investigating the various knick-knacks and dead things.

“Hands off the merchandise!” snaps the moncaw, rousing from his rest the second Daxter prods at a jar full of what appears to be congealed eyeballs. “Or you’ll be counting with your toes!”

I shoot the boys a look, beckoning them to my side as I dip my head apologetically to Pecker. “Apologies. They will keep their hands to themselves.”

The moncaw inclines his feathered head. “See that they do.”

“Jak. Daxter,” I go on, “this is Onin and Pecker.”

Both boys chortle at the name, and it has me fighting a grin. “He is Onin’s interpreter.”

At that, the soothsayer claps her hands together, and a blue-white light radiates from her hands, outlining the motions she makes.

I do not know if it is eco she channels with her movements or some other form of mysticism, but I have often thought her abilities similar to mine –she is the one who revealed my powers to me. Perhaps a year ago, I came in on Torn’s request, hunting for information. She did not have what the Underground was looking for at the time, but she claimed to have something that might interest me.

A key.

I was intensely interested, and I watched closely as she dragged her fingers along my veins. From my palms, up my arms, tip-tapping here and there with her glowing hands. With each tap, I felt as if a… well, like something opened within me. I became lighter. The world brighter. And when she placed a final touch at the spot between my brows, a whole new world opened up to me.

I glowed as she did, but pure white.

I asked her what she did and was told she had only unlocked the way for me. What I was doing was all me.

I asked her why. I was told it was time.

She still will not answer me with anything other than cryptic shite and riddles when I pester her about it all.

Onin welcomes us all, expressing her pride to see how I have grown and that it is lovely to see Jak again.

Which has me looking to Jak in question only to see he raises an incredulous brow at the soothsayer. With his arms crossed over his chest, he tells her he is certain they have never met before.

“Before… after…” Pecker drones, removing himself from his perch upon Onin’s head to sit upon a perch across from her. “It is all the same. …And she knows why you are here today, seeking answers about the Tomb of Mar.”

“The Baron mentioned a tomb earlier,” I murmur to Jak, “and Ashelin told us he was having them look for anything regarding the House of Mar’s sigil.”

“Then I guess that is what we’re looking for?”

I incline my head, guessing so.

Jak bids Onin to tell us what we need to know.

Onin’s hands move fluidly, her motions sweeping and grand, and for a while, Pecker says nothing. He just watches her movements thoughtfully before muttering, “She’s just going on and on about mystical energy channels, evil curses, and stupid ‘ooooo’ crap.” He flaps his wings in a menacing way. “Let me sum this up quickly. Onin wants you to recover three artifacts from the Precursor Mountain Temple –there’s a warp gate on the northwest side of the city. Go there, find the artifacts, and bring them back here.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Jak says, confident. It’s in his tone, the way he holds himself.

“You miss the part where she said curses?” Daxter asks, jumping from Jak’s shoulder to mine, then snuggling into the little satchel I crafted. He pokes his head up to stress, “_Evil _curses?”

The soothsayer makes another few motions with her hands; Pecker translates as she goes. “Onin says not to worry. You carry a strong light with you. It should keep them at bay.”

Jak looks to me with a raised brow; I smile softly and shrug. “I will try my best.”

* * *

We pop into Haidee’s before heading out to find the warp gate as we did not bring much more than the clothes on our backs when we departed from the Slums this morning. She always keeps extra clothes and supplies for the Underground operatives, and seeing as we are heading towards a mountain temple, it might do us some good to have rope and the like.

We are let in through the secret entrance after only a few moments of waiting in the darkness, and Haidee immediately takes to fussing over me.

I did not realize I looked so terrible, my eyes circled darkly and skin somewhat pallid, but I should have. I spent much of my energy reserves healing up a life-threatening wound, went into a dead sleep, then awoke only to throw myself back into the fire (and atop a gun-ship).

She makes me take a hot bath (which I am not the least opposed to) filled with all manners of salts and herbs she says will soothe any aches and ailments. She lays me out a sturdy shirt and pair of trousers for the journey into the mountains, along with a warmer woven cloak and scarf. I refuse the boots; she refuses my refusal. We go back and forth until I agree to take them along with me just in case.

After which I inquire as to whether or not Anouk has come hunting for me, and Haidee informs me his henchmen have not come knocking. Yet. She will feed them the usual lies when they come by: they just missed me, I stopped in the night prior for a few good outfits, and the like.

She insists Jak, Daxter, and I stay for dinner, and though I am still full from the snacking we did all throughout the Bazaar, Jak and Daxter scarf down large helpings of steamed dumplings and soup. She packs some for us to go, and then we take off into the dimming streets, navigating by rooftop until we reach the more rural district of Haven City where the vast majority of our crops are grown. There cease to be rooftops, but high walls with creeping flora take their place. We stick to those as we make towards the warp gate Pecker told us of.

The high walls eventually give way to the city walls, and we maneuver our way down to the ground to find a metal ramp, which leads up to a metal door I am able to open after a moment of screwing around with its control panel. I hold the door open for Jak before ducking in myself and repeat the process on the second door.

We are let out somewhere green and grey; high rocky walls of stone and the greenest grass I have ever seen. The air still smells of the smog of Haven, but there is something crisp underneath that initial layer.

It makes me excited to go deeper.

We find the warp gate but a few yards further, and the metal ring is dim, dead. Jak delivers a swift kick to it, and it flares to life, its innards swirling with blue lights.

Just as we are about to jump through, Jak’s comms device chimes. He pulls it from a back pocket and makes a sour face. “It’s Torn.”

“Hm. Perhaps he has a job for you?”

Jak answers the call, and he has barely said hello when Torn’s voice comes through in an angry growl, demanding to know what the hell Jak did. The city is on high-alert, riddled with Krimzon Guards and hellcats.

“We’ve been... uh... sightseeing,” Daxter lies with very little smoothness.

Torn scoffs, the sound highly disbelieving. “Oh. Really. Then why are the Krimzon Guards looking for not only ‘a dangerous young man with light hair, blue tunic, and a rabid orange rat on his shoulder,’ but also ‘a barefooted figure in a hooded cloak’?”

Daxter starts to say something quite certainly ridiculous, but is cut off by Jak fessing up, his tone relaxed. He did nothing in the world wrong, or at least, it was not _that _bad. “Look, we climbed up to the Baron’s Palace… and… we tripped a few alarms.”

“Oh right… that too,” Daxter says.

Torn somehow sounds angrier when he growls. “What? I didn’t authorize a strike on the-!”

Jak becomes defensive, interrupting our boss with a, “Hey, we kicked the Baron’s ass!”

“Yeah!” Daxter chimes in. “We sent him running!”

“You sent him right down our throats! Reckless! You’re completely reckless! And you took Paarsa! They-!”

I pluck the comms device from Jak’s hand, knowing if they keep speaking to one another, the conversation is likely to dissolve completely in angry, offended yelling.

“Torn,” I say gently. “This is Paarsa. …I understand you are upset and perhaps we deserve to be yelled at, but you might like to know we picked up some interesting intel on our mission.”

I hear Torn pull in a breath as if he might yell again, but he ends up loosing it in a long-suffering sigh before he grumbles, “Unsanctioned mission.”

I roll my eyes, thankful he cannot see me. “We came across the Baron, Anouk, and Errol in a meeting with the Metalhead leader. Not the creature in person, but a hologram. And as we already theorized, the Baron is bribing the Metalheads with eco. But the Baron is planning a double-cross.”

Torn is quiet. I take his silence as leave to continue. “We may also have a spy in our midst. I heard it mentioned, but not any indication as to who it might be.”

He sighs. “Fantastic.”

“But I also have some good news,” and I make my voice lighter to convey it, “we learned the Baron searches for the Tomb of Mar. No idea as to why, but now we know more than we have in weeks.”

Torn makes a thoughtful, “Hm…” And I can picture the way he pinches at the bridge of his nose as he says, “I’m still royally pissed off, you understand? What the three of you did… I have to spend the rest of the night shuffling agents around while ducking relentless patrols…” He sighs again. “Lay low for a few days. Don’t show your faces. Don’t make any moves unless I okayed them. …And when you three stop in, we’re having a talk.”

I nod though he cannot see me do so. “Yes sir.”

He tells me to be good before the line goes silent; I hand the comms device back to Jak, watching as he tucks it away.

We say nothing as we turn back to the warp gate, and I follow Jak through.

* * *

Jak, Daxter, and I are spat out on a high cliff, under the shade of a grand oak tree; its twisting branches flush with green leaves. I only admire it for a moment before trailing off after Jak. We do not go much further, only turning a rocky corner, when bronze and gold come to dominate my vision.

The Precursor temple is beautifully intermingled with the grey and green of the mountain, as if it were built carefully, mindfully of the nature around it. A waterfall spills off one side, splitting in to thinner rivulets that glisten like silver in the afternoon light. Vines creep up the sides of some segments; others float freely, colourful boughs of flowers spilling off them. And there are so many flowers! So much greenery and life. They burst from cracks in the stone, sway in the light breeze like the gentle waves of the ocean.

I feel myself bouncing excitedly, and I wonder why and how I never came here before. I knew the temple existed, but it never occurred to me it was accessible –that I could actually go here.

All I want to do is run around and explore, and I certainly begin to, running ahead of Jak in my excitement as I look for a way in.

And I find it in the form of a series of floating platforms that do not take much skill or effort to climb. They put me out in a rocky pocket where a platform rests; I wait for Jak to catch up before stepping on, and together we descend into a ravine.

Touching down on soft, green grass, my glee wilts at the sight of two Metalheads prowling about the ravine. I should not be surprised to see them here. They are everywhere outside the city (and sometimes in the city because of the damnable Baron), but for a second there, I forgot about Metalheads: that they exist and I should be wary.

Jak puts them down quickly with his morph-gun; I use my knife to claim their skull gems. Then three more when we enter into a segment of the temple with three, large, arching doorways of sorts that lead onto open terraces without any guard rails. Above each entryway, there is a golden orb, keeping the space alight even as darkness creeps in.

“Perhaps we should camp out here,” I suggest as Jak rolls a dead Metalhead onto one of the terraces. He pushes it off the edge without ceremony. “I do not want to navigate new territory in the dark.”

Jak nods slightly. “A bit open… but yeah.”

“We can keep watch in shifts,” I say, shrugging off my backpack. “I am not tired yet, so I do not mind being first up.”

“Well, I’m bushed,” Daxter announces, punctuating his sentiment with an exaggerated yawn as he unsnaps the thin sleeping bag from my pack to spread it out on the ground. “So that’s just fine with me.”

And he plops down onto the sleeping bag, closing his eyes and already snoring.

I grin at him, bidding him goodnight before I turn to assist Jak with dumping the Metalhead bodies.

It is quick work, over in a minute or two, and once the last body drops, I plop down as well, allowing my legs to hang over the side. I push back my hood and allow the night breeze to pass over me fully.

There is something so simple, beautiful, about this moment. The Precursor metal beneath me is warm, the air pleasantly cool, and the stars above are visible and vast. Not so much smog to obscure them. And the moon… the crescent light in the sky is the brightest I have ever seen it, or it seems like it anyhow. Downwards appears so empty, a drop with no ending. But I can imagine water far below, gently swaying.

I think I found a new favourite spot. As much as I love the beachy, warm Pumping Station, the mountains might have it beat with all its sheer drops, waterfalls, and vistas. If only they were warmer…

Slight vibrations draw my attention to Jak as he sits down beside me. I ask him which he likes better: the Pumping Station or this temple.

He scratches at his ear. “Oh… well… hm… Both are nice, I guess.”

“No preference?”

Jak shakes his head. “Both kind of remind me of home, so I like them in that respect. The sand and the waves and everything, and we had a temple close to my home village, but it was more… tropical, I guess. You had to hike through a thick jungle riddled with lurker snakes to get to it.”

“I have never seen a lurker snake,” I murmur thoughtfully. “We have Lurkers here, but they are…” I shake my head, the thought of what is done to them making me both sad and uncomfortable. “It is criminal what is done with them.”

“Criminal?” Jak’s brows furrow. “All they did was antagonize everyone where I’m from.”

“They are slaves in Haven City,” I tell him. “I do not believe anyone deserves such a fate as that. The Underground helps to free them when we can.”

The green-golden-blonde looks completely baffled by such a thing.

“Maybe they are of a different breed where you are from,” I suggest. “They are effected by the environment they are raised in, same as us. …You should meet Brutter. He is sweet. Friendly as can be… We could have visited him in the Bazaar earlier, he would have been glad to make a new friend.”

Jak makes a sour face, saying nothing to that.

I only smile at such an expression. “Would you tell me more of… what was it? …Sandover Village?”

“Yeah… Sandover…” He looks unsure, as if he debates with himself on whether or not he should share –if he wants to. “It was nice.”

I snort, wondering if that is the only answer I will get out of him tonight. “Everything is nice?”

He shakes his head, silent still until he works out a, “No, everything is shitty and grey and different… But there are a few things that make it… bearable. That remind me it’s not all shitty and grey and different. That maybe it’s worth something.”

I incline my head. “It _is_ rather shitty and grey and different…” I look down to my bare feet, the deep drop and rocky walls. “…There are times when I think Haven should burn, that it is a bastion of nastiness, of everything wrong with the world. But I remember I cannot tack on the sins of one to every person, every place. There are good people in Haven, people so kind the rotten ones are pushed from my mind. Tucked away wonders that make me forget that it can be living hell within those walls. I tell myself I am not fighting for _this _Haven, I am fighting for the one that exists inside my mind. It is not a paradise, of course. I do not believe those exist –not with the nature of man. But I imagine something better, something more. A place with clean water for everyone and no such thing as going hungry, sleeping on the street. Where despots cannot gun you down on a whim.”

Unsurprisingly, there is silence from Jak, something I am more than accustomed to despite knowing him so briefly. …It would blow my mind if he were suddenly chatty in all honestly. I would not know what to do.

“Is… is it hard?” Jak asks of me.

I look from the abyss below and to him, a brow raised in question. “Hard?”

The boy I first thought of as an asshole has his gaze turned away from me, off to the side –on his hand where he plucks at a loose thread on his trousers. “Being the brightest thing in this shithole.”

I am momentarily surprised, my mind blanking, stalling on me, until I feel a grin spread across my lips. I do not know anyone has ever said something so sweet to me. Nor have I ever seen Jak look embarrassed. In the light off the moon and stars, there is a faint blush upon his cheeks, and it makes mine heat up as well.

I reach for the hand closest to mine and give it a good squeeze. “Oh, it is completely draining, but it is made easier by having such remarkable people in my life.”

Jak looks up from his trousers, briefly to where I hold his hand, then to my face. He appears so flustered for a moment, but a grin I have never seen him wear before glides over what must be mild embarrassment. It is not cocky or self-assured or anything infuriating, but just a warm, lovely smile.

If I did not already like Jak, this smile most certainly would have pulled me in.

“There uh… there was a spot kind of like this,” Jak goes on, clearing his throat and looking to the stars, “back in Sandover. A nice, high cliff where the moonlight always came down in full. And then there were the temples on the beach where Daxter, Kiera, and I would sometimes watch the sunset. We went there a lot –when the Lurkers weren’t messing everything up. We’d relax in the sand or in the shallows. Couldn’t ever go swimming, swimming because of the lurkersharks, but it was still fun.”

My smile grows to take in my ears, remaining plastered to my face as Jak shares bits and pieces of his home –as his hand remains wrapped up with my own. I can almost picture Sandover as he describes it: a quaint village set upon the sands and cliffs, windmills turning in the breeze. The Forbidden Jungle –a name Jak and Daxter apparently never took heed of, because they would go there if they were bored. As well as to a place called Misty Island, but that was only twice –he learned his lesson as to why it was forbidden.

It warms my heart to hear him speaking so candidly, fondly. Not just because he is speaking to me, but because the world he describes… it seems so free. He could roam, play, and grow without a worry or care. There were no stifling walls or skies seemingly enshrouded in eternal grey. The only danger to contend with were Lurkers (which I still find boggling), no gun-toting tyrants or their lackeys.

It is hard for me to accept that such a place exists out there. My brain tells me it cannot possibly true. There is only ruination and Metalheads. Chaos. But I… I so badly hope Sandover village is out there, and maybe… maybe one day I can see it. Maybe after all this shit is over, Jak, Daxter, and I can find it. They can go home, and I… I will ask very nicely if I can tag along.

Because what he describes, it fills me with that same longing I always feel, but can never properly describe. That want for something that may not exist at all. That I do not properly understand.

I spend the rest of the night gently prompting the boy at my side to tell me more, trying to live in this fantastical world he weaves.


End file.
